The Dressing Room
by Butane Baby
Summary: An AU fic: Bulma is a sophisticated fashion designer and stylist with a defiant streak. Prince Vegeta, a gruff aristocrat from overseas, is used to getting what he wants - and he's determined to have her work for him exclusively. Both will be challenged to separate their wants from their needs when their priorities and personalities clash. Mature themes/language.
1. Solicitation

**For my dedicated readers: Thank you so much for your support and enthusiasm. It means a lot. I will finish some other stories eventually. It's just how my brain works, and I love testing the waters. I also welcome any PM's or Tumblr messages.  
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Tumblr handle: ultra-butane-baby**

* * *

 **Be careful what you ask for. It can get you tied in knots.**

 **Los Angeles, California: 8:35 p.m., June 1, Thursday**

 **"Client Book"**

Bulma walked around the spacious clothing showroom snapping her fingers. Each rhythmic, delicate "pop" of her thumb and forefinger had become a metronome for timing the sales team's efforts to tidy and rearrange the shoe and garment displays. They had twenty-five minutes left before closing, thankfully, and the area was almost spotless. Customers had come and gone, and everyone was exhausted from a long week of "special discount" promotions in the men's and women's departments. The showroom made a lot of money on this day, and while she was pleased with everyone's efforts, the overall results were dissatisfying. In fact, she believed having too many promotions without a vision for what they were selling weakened the store's exclusivity and credibility. The company that owned the department store where she worked was having an identity crisis, hurting its profits, but Bulma didn't manage the decisions from the top and had no desire to. Never again. She was a buyer, a designer, and a coach. She tried to instill in the staff that no matter what they sold, they were managing more than merchandise. Their job was to excite customers. Identity, longevity, artistry, and loyalty mattered.

 **8:45 p.m.**

" _Crystal_ , has that customer been helped over there in menswear?" Squinting, Bulma placed her clipboard on the purchasing counter. "We haven't much time left."

"Ms. Brief, I politely tried for more than an hour, until he said point blank to leave him alone – and not very nicely. I'm not sure he's in the right place anyway. I mean, look at him. He appears rather… scruffy."

Annoyed by the young woman's dismissal, Bulma clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "Oh, hells bells, girl! Now you're making excuses. You're six-feet-tall with your heels off. Don't tell me _that_ guy hurt your sensitive feelings. This business is not for whiners, and looks can be deceiving."

Flipping her frosted blonde locks, Crystal continued straightening scarves on a rack nearby. "That's unfair," she sniffed. "I sold more than anyone else on the floor today. Give me some credit. I learned all of my best tricks from you, too, so perhaps you should consider _my failure_ to win his business to be _yours_ as well."

"Oh, dear." Bulma slowly removed her glasses – a genteel warning sign of irritation. "I may have heard you incorrectly. Did you just mock the generous advice offered from my lifetime of experience? You must not have high hopes for your career – or _any_ career."

Realizing her blunder, Crystal straightened her posture as if she were addressing a military general. "Oh, Ms. Brief. I'm so, so sorry! I got ahead of myself. I really appreciate what you've taught me."

"As you should, sugar, if you ever want to work at a major fashion house by your twentieth birthday," Bulma replied, patting the woman's hand soothingly. "You know I adore you. Now finish up and tell the others to leave. I'm satisfied with clean up. You, though, will stay for however long it takes while I help our loitering guest."

"Yes, ma'am."

 **8:55 p.m.**

Bulma's sunny grin dissolved into a taut, reserved smile as she turned around. Her expression was welcoming yet communicated seriousness, just like her classic attire: pearl earrings, tailored white shirt, stiletto heels, black pencil skirt, and a stainless-steel Tiffany watch. The man was standing several inches back from one of the shoe displays, with his eyes trained on a particular pair. Bulma walked next to him, raising her chin as a polite greeting. He said nothing, keeping his gaze fixed on the shoes.

She softly cleared her throat. "Sir, that shoe is made by…"

"Givenchy – I know – but thanks for trying," he replied brusquely. "It certainly took you long enough to serve me. Do you typically ignore customers at this hour to make them leave? Is everyone that desperate to get to the wine bars around here?"

Bulma's jaw stiffened. _What did I do to deserve this pint-sized son of a bitch tonight?  
_  
She was battle-hardened after many years dressing and designing for spoiled, clueless, and occasionally narcissistic rich people, but this smoky-voiced man appeared to be the inverse: a "serial looker" with little money to spend and no intention of buying anything. Bulma prided herself on treating all guests with dignity, but he wasn't was worth more valuable time - not with his bad attitude. She had to redirect their discussion.

"Sir, from my understanding, my associate tried to help you earlier. I am sorry that didn't work out favorably. It seems like you're ready now, though, so I will be happy to…"

"Save it," he said, glancing at his watch with annoyance. "I don't plan on buying anything now."

Bulma's eyes locked onto the $50,000 Audemars Piguet timepiece wrapped around his impeccably tanned wrist. "Scruffy" _was_ wealthy – perhaps extraordinarily wealthy.

Indeed, looks could be deceiving.

 **9:10 p.m.**

 _He's wearing that gorgeous watch, but he looks like he just left a building construction site. Are those tar stains on his shirt and jeans? Wait - is that crap on his neck too?! Who the hell is this guy?_

In her younger days, Bulma had dated men from humble backgrounds who later became moderately wealthy after starting their own businesses. They were cautious with the finances, and one rarely saw them be so careless with expensive items. Her guest definitely came from "old money," and he was spoiled – and now he was hers to manage, whether she liked it or not.

He walked forward to face her. "So, Ms. Brief, have your unspoken questions about my ability to purchase anything in the store been answered adequately?"

"Actually, that fancy Swiss watch proves _nothing_ ," Bulma said. She paused, staring icily into his eyes. "You could be a jewelry thief for all I know – or a trashy drug dealer. We have plenty of them in Los Angeles. Now if you will excuse me, the store has officially closed. Good evening, sir."

Amused, the man leaned back and removed his jacket. Bulma sensed his hard observation of her backside as she returned to the payment station. She wanted to slap the taste out his mouth.

"Madame, I will pay your sales associate $2,000 to stay here while you advise me on a new wardrobe," he shouted. "Does that sound fair to you, Crystal - that's your name, right? You see, I'm traveling to Switzerland later this month on business. Everyone who matters seems to believe Ms. Brief is one of the best personal stylists in North America. If I'm impressed tonight, you'll have my business permanently."

Tilting her head sideways, Bulma stopped abruptly and exhaled. Alarmed, Crystal crouched behind the counter like a frightened deer. Her mentor didn't anger easily, but the woman knew Bulma never tolerated anyone going over her head. No one client would ever have that much power over her.

Bulma turned on one heel, placing her hands on her hips. "How _dare_ you," she said through clenched teeth. "You have no right to solicit this employee to do your bidding on my behalf! And _everyone_ who matters is right. I _am_ the best, and my client book is full, so I don't need your business. This store will do fine without it, too. Now leave. You won't be asked again."

" _Hn._ I am sure you will be fine, Ms. Brief - but the last time I checked, these stores are losing market share, which you already know. Sales are down. Olivier, the chief executive officer, is my old mate from Oxford. He will be disappointed to hear how poorly you have treated me."

Bulma looked curiously at him. "Oxford?"

"Yes."

"That means you're…"

" _In_ _the flesh,_ madame _._ "

The two women looked at each other, blinking simultaneously. "I'll be damned," Bulma replied with restrained astonishment. "Don't you have other late-night toys to play with, Prince Vegeta?"

 **9:30 p.m.**

"I have never been the most patient man."

Bulma stepped on the floor switch, shutting off the lights above him. "And I am not your psychotherapist. Your personality defects are not my concern, and it appears you have several to work on. Let's go, Crystal."

"Why are you wasting precious time prancing around in floor sales like a low-class intern? This is clearly beneath your level," Vegeta said, looking up at the ceiling. "Tell me something, woman. Did you just end a stressful romantic relationship?"  
 _  
_"Oh, isn't that cute." Laughing, Bulma stomped on another switch, extinguishing floor lights on his left and right. "Listen to him carefully, Crystal. This miniature emperor-in-training is teaching how sexism - with a healthy dose of being a pompous ass - can ruin potentially valuable business partnerships."

"Yes, ma'am," Crystal said dutifully.

By this time Vegeta stood in front of them holding a bulging money clip. "It is a shame that your pride prevents this lady from receiving extra pay tonight, especially after I snapped at her."

"Rubbish," Bulma retorted. She tied a scarf around her head and turned toward the stairs. "Then give her the money anyway to apologize. Oh yes. See that night guard over there? He will escort you out - for your protection, of course. I'm sure your entourage is waiting. Please tell _my cousin_ Olivier hello for me, too."

"Of course," the prince replied, throwing his jacket over his shoulder.

* * *

 **Santa Monica, California: 7:30 a.m., June 3, Saturday**

 **"Weekend Getaway and Not Giving a Damn"**

Bulma felt like she was talking to herself. Frustrated, she banged the phone receiver on the kitchen counter. Earlier that morning, her older sister Tights read on a gossip website that the prince was spotted leaving the store. The writers speculated that he met with Bulma for business or, perhaps, a romantic tryst, giving her sister a reason to be nosy.

"Look, big sis, I've worked here almost two years and enjoyed it," Bulma said as she grabbed a glass of orange juice. "Some of my best clients have even visited, and it's good for the younger employees to see what they could achieve. I started working in sales when I was 16 before starting design school."

"I remember your halcyon days," Tights said, snickering noisily. "I just don't understand why you moved out there. It's time to come back. New York City is full of neurotic divorced people. It's one big extended family. Everybody takes medicine for anxiety attacks after their fortieth birthdays, too. Join us!"

Bulma laughed out loud. Her sister had a way with words, even when she was overbearing. They were close, although Bulma didn't share everything.

"Sugar, I wouldn't be successful now had I not learned from the ground up. I'm not 'slumming' by working modestly in this store. I'm giving back to others, and Olivier hasn't bothered me because he doesn't want to hear my thoughts about the company's direction. Beyond that, I don't care what people think of me, and I'm surprised you brought this up since you knew what my response would be. And I certainly don't give a shit about that stupid website's interest in the little prince and me. "

"Tell me more about him," Tights said.

Bulma approached the bay window overlooking the Pacific Ocean. "There's nothing to tell. He's a dick. It's too bad. I have to admit, he is good looking. Women probably throw their panties at him regularly."

Tights was glad Bulma couldn't see her grin. "Interesting."

* * *

 **New York City: 8 p.m., August 16, Thursday**

 **"Aphrodite on Mount Olympus"**

Pouting dramatically, Bulma dropped her magazine to take pills neatly stacked on her lap. Her mouth puckered from their terrible taste.

"Damn it, Zeus Brickey! I can't be on bed rest for two weeks. We have a month left before fashion week and _I just started_ designing the first lady's dress for the November dinner at the White House."

Zeus, a soft-hearted photojournalist, was one of Bulma's oldest friends and her toughest critic. Standing at six feet five inches tall, with blazing red hair, most people didn't mess with him though.

"And you're griping at me because?" he said, rolling his eyes. "Bulma, please. You came here sick as a dog and passed out at the airport, scaring the hell out of everyone - and every nosy writer in town is stalking your friends for details. Now, out of the kindness of my heart, you're recovering from _a nasty lung infection_ in my gorgeous home studio. You will lie in that bed if I have to chain you to it."

Bulma shook her fist at him. "You aren't the boss of me!"

"La, la, la!" Zeus put his fingers in his ears. "I can't hear you!"

"I'm… I'm… getting up." Shaking her head slowly, Bulma reclined on the pillows and coughed. "I have to get up."

Zeus sat at the foot of the bed. He hesitated at first to say more but couldn't help himself. "See what I mean? Honey, you're 42 years old. Just rest. You're way too young to become a beautiful corpse. I hoped we could at least make it past the century mark together."

Bulma covered her face with both hands. "Zeus, there's no way I want to live that long - unless I'm having sex with a cute and lusty 100-year-old man. You will probably have two. Just bring more of this tea you keep raving about."

"Sure," he said, looking down at his phone. "Oh, the video camera is paging me. Let me answer this."

Within fifteen minutes he returned with a vase of orange tiger lilies.

"Wake up, sweetie."

Bulma's eyes brightened as she observed the bouquet. "Did you get those for me? They're absolutely lovely."

"They are gorgeous, but I can't take credit," Zeus replied. "Here's the envelope. See the parchment paper and wax seal? Very classy. I wonder how anyone discovered you were here."

Still feeling sleepy, Bulma waved her hand. "You open it for me."

"Oh my." He rubbed his beard. "It says, 'Whatever has the nature of arising has the nature of ceasing. Best wishes on your recovery, madame.'"

Sighing, Bulma pushed herself up. "Does it have a signature?"

"Yes, but I don't recognize the language," Zeus said, placing the envelope on the bed. "I'm fascinated."

"I'm sure you are," Bulma said sarcastically. "I, however, am not fond of mysteries."

Zeus squeezed her hand. "Bullshit. You prefer being the mystery, because you're a control freak. But I know enough about your, um, _special_ _tastes_. Someone is curious about you. Maybe it's time to pull out the leather for a lesson. It's been a while, yes?"

Turning on her side, Bulma pulled the bed sheets over her shoulder. "The almighty Saiyan prince sent those flowers, so you can stop being charmed. I told you he just wants me to work for him. I'm the designer's equivalent of vintage Mercedes-Benz that he wants to show off. If he hadn't acted like such an ass in front of Crystal, we probably could have worked out a deal."

"Seriously?" Zeus stood and examined himself in the floor mirror. "Hmm. I wonder what it would be like to shag a prince. Perhaps he's adventurous?"

Bulma pulled the covers over her head. "Go away, Zeus."

A hulk of a man stood briefly on the sidewalk, looking up, until the lights dimmed in the studio. He then walked around the corner, approaching a black Cadillac limousine with tinted windows. Before entering the car, he opened his jacket to check his gun holster.

"How did everything go, Nappa?"

"Just fine, Prince Vegeta, although I just can't understand how people can be so trusting in this country, even in New York City. I would be suspicious of anyone delivering flowers at this time of evening. Ms. Brief's friend could've been shot point-blank... had I wanted to."

"Maybe so," Vegeta said, pouring a small glass of Russian vodka, "but there are such things as hidden metal detectors."

Stroking his large bald head, Nappa looked out the car window. "Which reminds me, sir. I know you want to come and go as you please, but your safety…"

"That's enough!" the prince barked. He shoved a glass into the man's hand. "This is the only alcohol you get tonight. Take advantage of my reasonable mood unless you want to be dumped on the street."

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! I hope you are enjoying it. Let me know your thoughts. Reviews are always appreciated!**


	2. Corner Seats

**Riverdale, New York: Midnight, August 16, Thursday**

 **"A fool thinks of himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool" – Shakespeare  
**  
 _"What?!_ "

Nappa had been sitting quietly while observing the Hudson River from the limousine. No sounds from outside assaulted his senses for some time during the ride, but as soon as they left Zeus's house he knew this would be a long night.

 _God help me, but I probably don't rank highly on that request list._ He poured a glass of water without looking up. "Excuse me, sir?"

"You've been silent for an hour," Vegeta said irritably. "I feel like I'm alone in a cave."

Sighing, Nappa watched his country's next ruler with the weariness of a long-suffering parent. "Well, sir, you requested silence when we left the restaurant."

"Stop it," Vegeta said as he poured himself more vodka. "Don't be passive aggressive. You know I hate that. I can't read minds, but this is an _angry_ silence from you. So what is it?"

"I'm not angry," Nappa said, "but I am concerned. However, it is my job to keep such matters to myself. My responsibility is…"

"Oh, _give it_ _a rest_ , general," Vegeta said, waving his glass at him. "You have my permission to speak freely. I don't know why you're suddenly being modest after all these years."

Nappa moved the bottle away from him. "You've had _enough_ for now, Vegeta. You're drinking too much too fast. If you're going to do that, at least get a cheaper brand."

The prince rarely heard his longtime bodyguard address him directly, not since his boyhood. He put the glass down and leaned forward. "This better be good."

His face reddening, Nappa pounded furiously on the center table. "Why are you acting this?! We have vital business to take care of, and yet you're chasing an American fashion designer who wants nothing to do with you – which, at this point, I can understand completely. What the hell is wrong with you, son? I trained you personally like you were _my own child,_ between my duties with the Royal Army. Have you forgotten? And not once have I _ever_ denied listening to you when you felt others couldn't. _Not once._ You have always been a demanding little pain in my ass, but I have never seen you lose focus like this. Worse, you're spending money like water."

Enraged and embarrassed, the prince's voice lowered into menacing growl. "How _dare you_ sit here and insult me like this. Have you lost your mind?"

Nappa shook his head. "And just what are you going _to do_ about it, Vegeta? Kick me out? Tell your father? That surely wouldn't help improve your difficult relationship with him. Also, you may be 38 years old and I may be 59, but I can still beat your narrow ass – and take some enjoyment from the outcome."

"Oh, really?" Vegeta howled with scornful laughter. "Your overconfidence is breathtaking - and I should have you jailed for such impudence. Better yet, we can stop the limo here and try out your rusty Jackie Chan routines. I know all of them well."

Nappa shut his eyes and exhaled to steady his breathing. "But you won't do either because I'm not just your bodyguard and stand-in adviser. I am your friend - one who would still gladly take bullets for you. Separately, you should also accept being told 'no' more, especially by women."

"Hn." Vegeta looked away. "No woman has ever said no to me, except for my mother. It's not like I force myself on anyone. I'm no sick-minded mongrel. These women find me, or I easily convince them that my presence is worth their frivolous time. It doesn't take much."

Nappa huffed and stared out the side window. "You know damn well what I mean."

Besides assassination, he worried just as much about Vegeta falling in love - with anyone. He had never experienced it, and Nappa felt he was too immature to handle the responsibilities. He hoped that would change, because he wanted to see him less miserable, but he also shuddered thinking how the prince would react if yet another person he cared for hurt him deeply – like his father had. King Vegeta was so good that even Nappa had to carefully guide the old man to soften his callousness toward his eldest son.

"Just…switch places with the other guard up front," Vegeta said as he removed his father's watch. "Take the vodka. We'll serve it tomorrow when I meet with the real estate developers."

Nappa nodded respectfully. "As you wish, sir."

 **London: 9 p.m., September 16, Friday**

 **"Where Angels and Demons Play"**

Some would describe the scene as blissfully disorienting. One could move through the shadows to speak privately between statues and pillars or saunter through the museum's grand hall to be seen by anyone worth seeing. Techno music pulsed in the background, with DJs keeping sharp eyes on the mood to adjust their song selections. Two of the industry's brightest stars had performed already, receiving high praise, and now party guests focused on flirting, drinking, fucking, dancing, and making business deals – and taking lots and lots of pictures. Fashion show after-parties were meant to be flashy, bacchanalian spectacles, even while raising money for charity. This gala fit into a list of trend-setting social affairs for those who catalogued such events for cultural and historical significance – and for unrestricted gossip.

Bulma weaved through the crowd with Zeus, nodding and air-kissing gracefully as others recognized her, but she allowed no one to hug her. She wore a small pillbox hat with a netted veil, along with a strapless silver- and black-sequined bodice dress. Her shapely legs and hourglass figure were on full display, inspiring a number of jealous stares from both men and women.

"So glad to see you're here, Bulma. I heard you were quite ill. I'm impressed that you even came."

"Bulma! Darling, you look fabulous. Have you had facial surgery? Who is your doctor? I must know!"

"Well – my, my – here you are, Bulma Brief, all grown up. Revenez à Paris et travaillez avec moi de nouveau. I'm an old man now, and I need a worthy replacement for the fashion house."

Bulma closed her eyes. She loved her profession for being defiantly avant-garde, despite its darker elements: drugs, exploitation, shallowness, and for some, emotional emptiness. These problems weren't exclusive to the fashion industry, but the nature of the beast put them on global display. Those who guarded their privacy and understood and respected themselves often lasted longer- and, over time, received more respect than the fireflies. She empathized with fireflies, though, because she hated seeing good, talented people fail because of ego - or lose themselves in deadly, soul-destroying vice.

"What is this champagne? It's wonderful. Zeus, try some."

"Krug Grand Cuvee, Ms. Brief," the waiter replied, looking delighted. Bulma was surprised that the drink had also been delivered in an expensive Waterford crystal flute. She could always tell the difference.

"How elegant."´ Zeus set his glass on the cocktail table. "To whom do we owe for this treat, good man?"

Looking at Bulma, the waiter fidgeted before answering. "An anonymous sponsor of this gala requested it for you both, sir."

Bulma nodded and searched for a place to sit. "Tell the person thank you for us. Would you deliver the bottle and two more empty champagne flutes to that booth back there, please? We might have visitors later."

"Yes, Ms. Brief."

"How are you feeling, honey?" Zeus asked as they walked arm-in-arm together. "Maybe you shouldn't drink much, or we could return to the hotel. We still have three more days of this unruly festival. You seem less impressed by the couture this year anyway."

"I am fine," Bulma replied softly. "You have forced me to accept my limits since I was ill. Fortunately for my ego, I am still somewhat enjoying myself."

"I love you too, my pugnacious virago," Zeus said, kissing her hand. "Look over there! That's Astrid Armond. Do you mind if I leave for a bit? I'm trying to get a photo shoot with her. She's so stubborn."

Bulma pinched his nose. "Bye, bye." She liked watching Zeus bounce happily between party guests. His suggestion to return to the hotel sounded good, though. She wanted him to enjoy himself, but she planned to leave soon enough because the fete would likely last all night. He would understand. The red velvet curtain partially encircling the seating booth offered enough people-watching space to keep her interested, so she decided to stay a bit longer to gather her thoughts.

"Is it your habit to hide in corner seats each year to observe this orgiastic foolishness, Ms. Brief, or are you someone who prefers drinking peacefully into a coma all alone?"

 _Damn. He's mister anonymous. I knew it._ Bulma sipped slowly from her glass. She pondered whether the prince's behavior now qualified as business as usual or full-blown stalking. In the past, she too had assertively pursued work with high-profile clients, sometimes for months, skillfully using their self-interest to close lucrative deals in her favor. Anything less made the difference between having rent money and sleeping on a park bench.

But Vegeta had little to lose beyond his fragile pride, she thought, which apparently drove his persistence. She considered that a weakness. She didn't need anything from him – not money, even though he had tons of it, and definitely not prestige - and her continued rejection irked him. It was tempting to chop his arrogance and entitlement into tiny pieces, because he had no clue what she was capable of. Sexual attraction factored into his behavior, obviously, which she also found annoying. Too many women had likely surrendered to his expectation that they would fall on his massive dick – which swelled just enough under his clothing to make their interaction interesting, at least. However, she wondered if he had ever experienced being treated like a throwaway receptacle for another's desires.

Exploring one's deepest desires and sexual appetites with another wasn't inherently bad - however strange they might seem to others - but the terms had to be agreed upon by both parties to make the experiences fulfilling. That required trust, not selfish exploitation. Bulma had been on both sides, which were wild and thrilling, but sometimes the latter left the other person's emotions destroyed. She had shunned romantic relationships in recent years, as well as unsentimental bondage activities, because the power of destruction seduced her: the unfortunate aftereffect of being hurt emotionally herself. Furthermore, as her tastes matured, it became harder to meet someone who could fully explore them with _her_ in mind. That she would not accept. Not anymore.

The prince had no idea, and yet he was conceited enough to think he could conquer someone like her without being conquered himself.

She decided then to help style him. That would be a piece of cake.

He would also be taught a lesson.

Her eyes traveled from his shoes to the top of his suit lapels. "I see you chose Zalman to dress you for the gala, your highness. He did a nice job. The new designs are very good."

"But?"

Bulma gave him the side eye. "There is no 'but,' Vegeta."

"Oh, come now." He picked up the champagne bottle. "Sure there is. He was one of your protégés, yes?"

"Exactly," she replied, handing him her half-empty glass, "and I do not share criticisms of my former apprentices' work with anyone but them."

"Impressive." He tipped the glass in her direction and sipped. "I see why your clients are loyal. I haven't met anyone here who speaks negatively about you, really, but some wonder why you're reclusive these days."

Preparing to leave, Bulma adjusted her hat, partially pulling the veil above her eyes. "Thanks for the champagne. Is this your first sponsorship? And I don't really care what some unnamed people wonder about, so let's dispense with that conversation."

"Yes, it is," he said playfully. "Shall we also discuss how I am pompous ass?"

"Men like you are most of the time."

Vegeta frowned and interlaced his fingers. "Maybe I'm an asshole because I just happen to be one, rather than because I'm male."

"Your royal sense of entitlement helps," Bulma replied, smirking at him. Now she was having real fun. She saw a reddish hue crawling around the base of his neck and moving fast toward his chin. If she pissed him off more, his head would explode – figuratively, of course.

"Hn." He swallowed, curling his lips inward. "I take it the flowers were not appreciated then."

Bulma poured another glass of champagne, raising it in a congratulatory toast. "Tiger lilies have slightly sweet-tasting petals that must be cut away from a bitter base to be edible. That was a creative way to capture my interest. You did your homework. How you found that decade-old article about my floral preferences in that defunct little magazine impressed me. I have… decided to take you as a client."

At first the prince looked somewhat surprised. His expression quickly reverted to a nonchalant stare, as if he knew Bulma would give in all along.

" _Splendid,_ Ms. Brief. Will you return to New York after the festival?"


	3. Something Special

**Summary: Vegeta tests. Bulma observes.**

* * *

 **Brooklyn, New York: 11 a.m., September 30, Wednesday**

 **"House Rules"  
**  
Vegeta met Bulma at the door of a two-floor walk-up apartment building in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. The space, which looked like it hadn't been inhabited in months, doubled as an artist's studio and living quarters. Thick plastic tarps covered the furniture in the studio, the rug were rolled up and tied on the floors, and thin layers of dust had settled in various nooks and crannies throughout.

The prince appeared slightly disgusted by the surroundings, which tickled his hostess. Clearly he expected having the red carpet rolled out for him, and Bulma was surprised that his bodyguard hadn't warned him before arriving. Nappa and another security team member had performed a "clean" safety check earlier. The burly, reserved man was flawlessly professional and respectful, but Bulma also sensed his displeasure with Vegeta being there. She also noticed the new, more visible security presence around her client, although she didn't feel unsafe. She was familiar with most protective procedures, having dressed VIPs both in Hollywood and in government.

Vegeta wore a tan-colored, double-breasted coat that cut slightly above his knees. A black-and-grey silk pinstripe scarf draped around his neck on both sides. His leather ankle boots and sheepskin gloves, both black, impressed Bulma the most since she adored clients who understood how to accessorize. He was showing off - challenging her to do better. Walking in the opposite direction, she deliberately slapped one of the tarps to kick up a cloud of dust behind her. Within minutes he began to sneeze and cough.

"How long has it been since this place was cleaned?" he said, covering his nose with a handkerchief. "It's bad enough that it's rained all week. I hope there's no deadly mold growing anywhere."

Bulma uncovered a 1940s black Singer sewing machine mounted on wooden cabinet. Her partial smile faded as her fingers glided across the controls. Vegeta realized the contraption had a backstory, but he wasn't in the mood to hear it. She probably wouldn't tell him if he asked anyway.

"You wanted to meet me in the city, so this is where we'll work," Bulma said, looking up. "I've allowed aspiring, underpaid artists and designers live here because I remember what it was like. My father was an artist. He willed this place to my sister and me before he died. I'm leaving Los Angeles to move in."

"So you weren't exactly poor as a child, then," Vegeta said, raising his eyebrow.

Bulma had never met a bigwig so blatantly arrogant while playing detective. Whoever taught him about evaluating personalities did a shitty job, she thought. "Considering your wealth, I'm not sure how you would define poor," she said crossly. "My parents expected me to pay for most of my schooling, and I made very little when I first started working."

"Sounds like a personal issue to discuss with a psychotherapist," he replied with a devilish grin.

"You can hang your coat on the hook to your right," Bulma said, ignoring his taunt. "I managed to wipe that off for you."

Instead of following her instructions, he walked behind her. "Does this move back here mean you're emerging from the shadows? I would enjoy bragging that I caused the great Bulma Brief to visibly reclaim her public throne of glamour above all others."

Bulma ran her fingers through her hair before turning around. She stared at him, recalling an article about aggression between male and female dogs, which often led to grave injury… or death. Same-sex dogfights weren't great either, but the former were considered the worst. At the moment, biting and shaking the prince sounded appealing – but not for fun, unfortunately.

She clacked her platform heel hastily on the floor. "Look, Vegeta, time is money, and you're on the clock for every second you keep yapping. I'm considering charging by milliseconds at this point."

"Fine, fine," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "You don't know how to take a joke."

She pulled out a cloth tape measure, snapping it like a bullwhip. "Oh, trust me, I can take a joke, buddy. You're just not funny." Placing her hand on her chin, she stepped backward and began to walk the circumference of his body. She hummed when she paused for closer observation.

Vegeta followed her movements, stopping each time she did. "What are you doing?"

Bulma raised a finger to her lips, shushing him. "You're approximately five feet, five inches tall. You weigh about of 155 pounds. You have a 32-inch waist, and 35- to 38-inch chest."

"You figured all that out just by looking at me?" Huffing, Vegeta crossed his arms. "I didn't send my measurements."

Bulma peered over the top of her glasses. "I know, Vegeta, which almost caused the termination of our business relationship. I have rules, and you just broke one. Now then, what do you have to say?"

He glanced at his stomach and thighs. "You could afford to shave off one or two pounds."

"So you plan to lose weight?" Bulma tried keeping a straight face while Vegeta's turned red. "I _totally_ understand. We can wait until you reach the size you prefer. I have extended my services for others."

The veins throbbing on Vegeta's head were enormous. Bulma considered asking him to have his blood pressure checked. The last thing she needed was a prince with a brain hemorrhage sprawled on her studio floor, dead. The media attention would be nightmarish.

 _"_ Now it appears that you're wasting time," he replied, rubbing his temples.

"Very well," she said. "There's a _clean_ bathroom down the hall. Remove your shirt and shoes but leave your undershirt and pants on. Put on the sandals outside of the door before you exit. I'll be upstairs for about five minutes. That round thing in the middle of the floor is a…"

"A tailor's fitting platform. I am familiar with them, Ms. Brief. I will be standing on it when you return."

Vegeta rubbed his chin as she walked upstairs. Everything was so outwardly _controlled_ about her: the wool-blend plaid pants, white oxford shirt, diamond-stud earrings, cropped haircut. Her perfume, however, was overtly sensual. Each inhalation teased him with jasmine and orange blossoms – and vanilla. That almost tipped him over the edge. Did she do it purposely? He walked to the bathroom fantasizing about his fingers inside of her – at first – as he pinned her naked body to those cool red bricks. He hadn't expected instant, intense attraction to this woman when they met in L.A. He acted like a jerk that day because he didn't know how to feel. He just wanted the best designer who wouldn't make a big deal about his demanding ways – or his bad moods, which were happening more often.

Bulma returned with a tray with black tea and shortbread cookies. She always served clients this way during their first session. Then, she reached the bottom of the stairs. Once again, Vegeta didn't follow simple instructions. Instead, he stood with his arm propped on the wall, bare-chested.

This would not work.

His magnificent, naturally sun-kissed body was cut like a Greek god, as she anticipated, but she had to establish dominance. He would learn discipline – and, perhaps, eventually thank her for it.

"First, your highness, there is nothing you could possibly offer by playing these silly games. Second, I don't fuck my clients, male or female. Third, if you try this bullshit again, I will set fire to your ass – literally. My job is to build your wardrobe arsenal. So let's get this straight: I tell you what to do, and you say 'yes, ma'am.' My hand is firm and talents unmatched, and if you follow my rules you'll be thrilled with the results. However, what happens here won't appease your ego. You must do that on your own."

Eye ablaze, Vegeta left for the bathroom without saying a word. He was fuming beyond the point of yelling. Bulma handed over his coat when he returned fully dressed. The interior door to the studio was open, with a bodyguard facing them from the hallway.

Watching him leave, she slowly gnawed on the tip a cookie. "If you choose to return, you will arrive at 6:45 a.m. Friday to complete this session. It will take two- to-three more days with me for a proper fitting, and you'll arrive at the same time until we're finished. After that, it will take three-to-four days to make one suit, as I'm sure you know. I will construct the first one after we agree on a design. Unless there's a dire emergency, you will be erased from my client book permanently if you're late."

Vegeta glowered at her. " _Tch_. I won't be coming back."

Bulma swiftly shut the door in his face. Heavy, decorative chains slapped against the wood while the prince and his escort quietly exited from the apartment's front entrance. Sunlight had appeared, finally, prompting him to don his mirrored sunglasses.

Nappa opened the car door from inside, saying nothing. The look on Vegeta's face confirmed what he suspected: The prince was smitten with this woman, as if he didn't have enough troubles.

"I'm going for a walk, and I don't want to be flanked by anyone," Vegeta said tersely. "You can follow me in the car. It someone decides to shoot me, so be it. If it makes you happy, I can mess up my clothing by wearing that god-awful bulletproof vest."

 _Damn it. Maybe I am getting too old to tolerate this crap from him._ Nappa chewed three aspirins, without water, to avoid a headache. "We still have the meeting later at the United Nations, sir."

"I know that!" Vegeta snapped. "Have you all forgotten that I can fight too? I just… need fresh air, OK? This is an attractive neighborhood. We don't have architecture like this in Hegemone."

"Understood, sir, but can we try having the guards follow you from a wider distance?"

"Fine, Nappa," Vegeta said, looking back at the apartment. Then he strolled down the tree-lined sidewalk with his hands in his pockets.

After finishing her tea, Bulma stepped atop the fitting stand. She hadn't tied rope knots in a while, but her skills hadn't diminished one bit. The tight handcuff loops she crafted almost seemed quaint. Her cheeks burned red as she twirled them above her head.

* * *

 **8 p.m., Oct. 1, Thursday**

 **"Something Special"**

Zeus poured a glass of wine and sat down. "What are you up to, girlfriend?"

Without turning to address him directly, Bulma continued stirring tomato sauce on the stove. "Pour a glass for me too. Have you lost all of your good manners?"

"Look, don't waste my time, honey," Zeus said, looking annoyed. "I'm not here to take advantage of your cooking skills, as superb as they are. _What is up with_ _the prince_? Any good gossip about world affairs? I need some business. Isn't Hegemone having problems with surrounding countries? I assume that's why he's in the states so often – to get U.S. support."

Bulma swirled her glass of wine and sipped. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Brickey, but it was a rather mundane affair. The most exciting part was threatening to kick him off my client list."

"Bulma Brief, you're holding back information, which hurts my feelings. Did this guy make an aggressive pass at you without permission? Isn't that automatic grounds for dismissal? If not, it should be. I know we've joked about his personality many times, but now he strikes me as a rather strange character."

"Sweetheart, Prince Vegeta is as harmless as they come," she said, raising her glass to him. "Now come serve yourself dinner. The pasta is al dente."

"Well, did you at least get a good, hard look at his physique, woman? How was it?"

Bulma shook her head and smiled. "And here I thought you were really worried about me." She sniffed loudly, as if she was on the verge of tears. "It's all about you!"

"Oh sod off," Zeus said, waving his fork at her. "It's not like you're some pristine angel. You're not saying anything because you have plans for him, don't you?"

She poured another glass of wine. "Wow, you picked a great bottle of Merlot – and I don't know what you're talking about."

"The hell you don't, liar."

Exasperated, Bulma began writing on a notepad. _"You know this place might be bugged. They can probably hear everything we're saying, so shut up. We can talk later."_

Zeus snatched the pen from her. " _If you plan on hanging Tiny Tim upside down from the rafters, blindfolded and gagged, his henchmen will figure it out anyway. At least give the poor bastards something to look forward to."_

Bulma spit out her wine laughing. "Damn you! Now I have red dribble all over my apron!"

Zeus pulled her up to whisper. "Just... be… careful, honey. I don't know why you picked this one, but remember that trust between a dominant and a submissive is essential. He may be a haughty pretty boy, but just because you think you can teach him something special doesn't mean he's ready for it. I'll choose to believe this isn't about your ego as well." **  
**  
"Let me go, Zeus," she said, turning away from him. "Our food is getting cold."

Before she could sit down, her cell phone rang - another unwelcome interruption. The phone number was masked, but she felt compelled to answer anyway, for whatever strange reason.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Brief? This is Nappa, Prince Vegeta's bodyguard. Do you have time to chat?

"Uh, sure, sir - of course." Concerned, she looked over at Zeus. He stood immediately, leaning forward with his hands on the dining table.

* * *

 **Thank you for the enthusiastic comments. You are making this lots of fun to write.**


	4. Disciplined

**8:20 p.m., Oct. 1, Thursday**

 **"Intelligence Training"**

Zeus moved to look out of the second-floor window until Bulma shook her head to stop him. She sipped from her glass and set it down.

"Ms. Brief, I'm actually outside of your apartment now. Do you have visitors?"

Her nails tapped nervously on the dining table. "Well, yes, I do." I would prefer not having him leave, but, if it's something urgent, I can. Is the prince well?"

Pausing, Nappa chose his words carefully. "He is... fine...physically."

After breathing a sigh of relief, Bulma covered her mouth to hide a snicker. This talk was going to be interesting.

"It's OK," Nappa said. "You are welcome to laugh – although not too much. I still must show respect to my country's future sovereign.

"Oh god. You heard me?" her face crumpled from embarrassment. She usually exercised restraint, but having Zeus around gave her a chance to be her complete self, warts and all.

Nappa smiled to himself. "Ms. Brief, years of intelligence training teaches one to listen well - along with special microphones."

Zeus motioned for her to put him on speakerphone. Bulma placed the device on the kitchen counter and backed away slowly. "So now that you're done charming me, general, what's the real deal?"

"Would you mind coming out?" Nappa stepped forward from underneath a tree. "Look outside to your left and right. The local police know I'm here because I contacted them, so you have nothing fear."

Bulma glanced at Zeus, who quietly mouthed "no, no, no" - while waving his hands wildly. "I'll come out, Nappa. Just give me about ten minutes."

"Of course, madame."

Zeus wanted to slap her back into reality but shook the table instead. "Are you crazy?!"

"You already know the answer to that," Bulma replied confidently. "We're fine, babe. I won't return brainwashed like the Manchurian Candidate. I promise."

Zeus took a long swig from the wine bottle. "I can't do this with you anymore, honey. We're both used to weirdness from high-class clients, but even I draw the line somewhere. Since when has a flower-delivering chief of security _for a prince_ shown up to discuss the meaning of life?"

"You are my heart, Zeus, and you will stay here," Bulma said, blowing him a kiss as she left. "If something happens, you better damn well have my best photo at the memorial service, or else I will haunt you from hell."

"Not funny!" he shouted, picking up his smartphone. "I'm calling your sister. I won't be the only one worried about this nonsense anymore!"

Bulma tugged at her coat while Nappa helped her onto the sidewalk. "Thank you, general. It's chillier than I figured it would be." He covered her shoulders with his scarf, shifting around to her right side, which had been closest to the street – a protective move. He had been trained well, she thought.

Nappa bowed, looking just as serious as he did when they first met. "I am pleased that you are comfortable, Ms. Brief. I take it you're wondering how I ended up working for the prince."

"Actually, I'm wondering _how in the hell_ it happened." Bulma covered her mouth again. She blamed her sassiness on the wine – a lame excuse, of course, but it was convenient.

Nappa stared skyward to hide a grin. There was a lot to like about this woman, but he also had a job to do. "I have looked after Vegeta and trained him intermittently since his childhood. I left my post as general of the Royal Army to guard him." He coughed a few times, as if he had trouble saying the words. "It was an honor... and a necessity."

Bulma felt more comfortable as they walked together, which put her mind on alert. This was how real security professionals collected "soft" intelligence – to disarm their subjects by being friendly with them – and she was being relatively cooperative. But why was Nappa so open with his behavior?

She touched him to stop walking. "OK, I understand - in a weird sort of way - but what does this have to do with me?"

"I need Vegeta focused. His activities here, with you, are a distraction that I'm tolerating only because he rallies relatively well when faced with challenging situations – if they aren't of his own making." Choosing silence, Bulma waited for the other shoe to drop. Nappa's eyes joined with hers. Calling his expression serious wouldn't do justice describing his sober, forceful appearance. He meant business.

"Whatever you're planning for him, _don't_. This is not a request, Bulma."

Bulma bristled at his command – or was it a threat? No one threatened her. No one. She didn't care if he assassinated her. She had lived a full life. "I don't know what you mean, general."

" _Yes_ , you do," Nappa said. "I've been doing this a long time, and I read behavior better than most. You may believe you're in control – showing a man like Vegeta what 'his place' is because you can – but you're not in control. This isn't a game, and though he may deserve being humbled in many ways, I know you are better than this."

"Better than what, exactly?" she said angrily. "You know _nothing_ about me. I'm not some crazy person. He's the one who sought me out, remember? I am doing exactly what I've been asked to do."

Frustrated by her refusal to consider the gravity of his words, Nappa crossed his muscular arms and leaned against a tree. He was _helping_ her, possibly risking Vegeta's trust in him. "Oh, you put on a great show with the prince yesterday, but it's all a ruse. I know you will do your job well, as you told him you would, but leave the, um, self-righteous – or, dare I say, erotic - _lessons_ out of it."

"OK, I'm leaving!" Bulma said, shoving his scarf into his chest. "I have heard enough. You know what? Once I hit forty years old, I finally realized how _liberating_ it is to not give a shit about what others want when it's convenient for them. I also realized how _sick_ I am of men like you blaming women like me for not conforming to roles that don't suit us – emotionally, physically, or otherwise."

Nappa bowed to her. "Believe it or not, I like you. Your frustration is understandable, but that doesn't give you the right to leave destruction behind you – and, trust me, I have been there. You think highly of yourself, and for good reason, but there's much more at stake than your pride. Vegeta is a brilliant man and as tough as titanium panels, but he is ... vulnerable in other ways. I have likely said too much already, but keep my words in mind. You have enough integrity not to share our discussion with anyone. Now, please, let me escort you home."

Nodding, he reached for her hand. Bulma accepted it despite her anger, allowing him to place her arm inside of his. This man genuinely cared for Vegeta, sharing his concerns like a loving father would – like her deceased father would. She wondered if the prince knew how fortunate he was to have someone like Nappa in his life. Maybe. Maybe not.

Bulma saw Zeus staring from the upstairs window while Nappa faded into the darkness. A black SUV slowly drove past soon after. She silently approached her bedroom after returning upstairs. Her loving friend, carrying their unfinished bottle of wine, lay next to her on the bed. Bulma activated the sound-masking system buried within the walls. Even Vegeta's security team hadn't discovered it - or so she believed. No one could likely hear their chat. She also recalled Nappa's early assurance that the team wouldn't disrupt her life or privacy unreasonably. Vegeta had also ordered them not to install listening devices anywhere in her home, which she didn't know.

Still, she wondered why his security was this heavy. She had worked with other world leaders and diplomats, but, short of the U.S. president, his entourage almost appeared excessive. While Vegeta's country was large and had some international clout, it certainly wasn't Australia or Brazil.

"You won't tell me what Nappa said, will you?"

Bulma patted Zeus's knee. "He didn't threaten my life if that's what you're asking, honey. He was a complete gentleman."

"Chick, I'm not worried about you!" he said, smacking the back of her hand. "People like that always murder friends and family first! Should I carry poison-tipped pens with me now?"

Bulma laughed heartily and poured more wine. Zeus, however, hadn't finished his interrogation. "Bulma, you rarely keep secrets from me, even during your ugliest moments. Will our friendship be like this as long as these guys are around? Remember what I said earlier? As arrogant he is, Prince Vegeta isn't your personal plaything, and it's been years since you've been in this position. You're treading into complicated physical and, perhaps, psychological territory. This man is a _soon-to-be head of state,_ with a hot-blooded personality, and you have a reputation to protect just as much as he does. Whatever Nappa said to you, he must have sensed something."

"Vegeta _wants_ to be dominated in a different way – not controlled," Bulma replied, twirling her wine glass. "I recognized it when we were in London. His arrogance, as we've called it, masks something deeper. This isn't about mere vanilla sex - and, as I told him, I don't fuck my clients. However, the prince can learn other things from me and, thus, understand his own inhibitions. He'll return tomorrow, I'm sure, to finish our first lesson."

Frowning, Zeus took the wine glass from her. "Sweetie, I love you dearly, but I can't support what you're doing. What's gotten into you? Where is this god complex coming from? I have my own… predilections, of which you are well aware, but…"

Bulma reclined on the bed, pushing pillows between them. "I will build trust with Vegeta. He won't be cast to the four winds. You were correct at first that my ego had been driving me. This is different. Conversation over. Finish your wine, and I love you too."

* * *

 **6:20 a.m., Oct. 2, Friday**

 **"Discipline and Obedience"**

Bulma's morning routine rarely changed: Wake up at 5 a.m., shove a lukewarm bowl oatmeal into her mouth, listen to "Morning Edition" for news, and exercise occasionally before starting work. She didn't follow anyone's schedule now, beyond ensuring that clients were tended to properly and received their clothing and accessories on time. Vegeta didn't ask during his fit of pique earlier that week whether she set similar, strict time-and-behavioral rules with other clients. She did, but the prince hadn't earned that helpful knowledge. She had been bookmarking pages in men's fashion magazines when the doorbell chimed. With mild annoyance, she pushed aside fashion photos Zeus took during his routine street-roaming sessions.

 _Damn, I was just finishing my toast._

She released the front door lock after examining the security camera. Vegeta regally walked ahead of his attendants looking sleepy but rather satisfied with himself. He was dressed in a black crew-neck T-shirt, with short sleeves, which emphasized every muscle on his gorgeous, impeccably chisled arms and chest. His dark blue denim jeans sagged slightly over his studded, black low-top leather sneakers. He also wore a silver stud earring – an attractive flourish. Smiling, Bulma sipped the last of her coffee and slowly approached the interior door.

 _Quite impressive, Prince Vegeta. Too bad I can't say that out loud.  
_  
She was somewhat surprised that he didn't keep disciplined hours, like she did, but maybe he wasn't "a morning person" or had spent his evening planning to overthrow a frightened, less-powerful country. Then again, according to the news, it seemed that his country was the anxious one. Stress had intensified his terseness, apparently, but he wasn't entitled to run roughshod over anyone who meant no harm. Bulma had these moments too, although far less often, but she usually apologized and accepted the consequences. She was also being smug about her ability to do the latter.

She blocked the entrance. "You're here early."

Vegeta felt tempted to push her aside but quickly realized he was being tested. A new game. His curiosity had been a blessing and a curse since childhood. Maybe Bulma was a tad deranged, rather than merely eccentric and mysterious – a terrible insult to strong-willed women, he knew, but he considered the thought anyway. Did that characteristic drive her talents? Even more absurd, he had chosen to return and felt compelled to accept her firm demands – to obey them - and maybe go beyond that, although he was unsure what "that" would be. He had left her home furious two days before, after she slammed the door in his face. The daring look in her eyes when the door closed, however, left him breathless. He _liked_ how her simple, direct act of willfulness made him feel. Had his attendant not been present, he would have crawled into a corner to wallow in his arousal. The sensation surpassed his original desire for sex. Bulma had to know, and she likely expected his return. He wasn't that stupid or overconfident to believe she didn't. Being near this cunning minx would test his mettle and capacity for restraint, much like the rocky obstacle course where he trained in his country.

"Isn't it customary for Americans to say good morning, Ms. Brief?"

"This is New York City," Bulma said plainly. "You take what you can get. What do your people do?"

Her explanation actually made sense to him. That's why he liked New Yorkers in particular. They weren't as evasive.

"My countrymen say 'How are you?' since mornings aren't always good. Regardless, I thought you'd be pleased that I'm early."

"I said 6:45 a.m. for a reason, your highness," Bulma replied as she further examined his attire. "How often do you arrive too late or early when negotiating political deals? Both are examples of controlling the situation to your advantage."

He smirked and scratched his chin. "I want four suits made, but we can begin with two. Now would you let me inside, or shall I wait until that fresh coffee you're making is ready? I am rather tired, and it does smell delightful. I would be happy to get some myself instead of asking you to bring it. Also, if I were trying to control this situation to my advantage, _I would not be here, would I_? You are the best designer there is, as you've said, and I have a weakness for fine clothing. It's an Achilles' heel that I'm unable to overcome. Can we call a truce now?"

Bulma stepped away, turning her back, while he closed the door. The locks activated automatically this time, and background noise within the studio nearly disappeared. His eyes surveyed the room, from front to back, with a radically different view. The place was hard-wired like a prison. He didn't recall Nappa saying anything when the attendants checked before. His overprotective guard probably felt more comfortable with the setup anyway.

"You know what to do," Bulma said, looking at the bathroom. "As you can see, the studio has been cleaned, which should meet your standards. I'll return with the coffee press and muffins. Have as much as you'd like before we begin, and get used to this routine. The time we spend won't seem as tedious after a while."

Watching her leave, Vegeta inhaled deeply. The coffee couldn't mask the perfumed scent that had driven him wild before. He approached the restroom to undress, dragging his hand along the brick wall. He needed something – anything - rough to touch. He had a million responsibilities on his mind, all important, but Bulma's home had quickly become a captivating siren's vortex.

He stepped up on the tailor's platform, driving his hands into his pockets. She had provided tatami waraji sandals, the traditional footwear of the common man as well as samurai warriors. He was neither, but Bulma was an intelligent artist. Her styling choices, however simple, all had meaning – right? He shrugged. He was devoting too much mental energy to this.

The studio seemed colder. _It was colder_ , and now his nipples were hardening. Then came the goose bumps. That really pissed him off. "Ms. Brief, I don't have all damn day! I have other affairs to manage. I'm not paying you to be a European barista – and why is it so cold down here?! The temperature was fine before!"

Bulma rolled her eyes as he bellowed. He would wait. She had lowered the heat earlier to keep him focused on their work. "Maybe the room feels colder since your top shirt is removed. I will be down shortly. The coffee will help warm you up. I suggest that you review those fabric swatches on the drafting table until I return."

Given Vegeta's melodrama, she wondered if Nappa was the true diplomat representing Hegemone's interests. He certainly acted more like a chief of staff than a mere bodyguard. That seemed logical. Maybe the prince was merely a figurehead who dutifully followed his trusted adviser's suggestions, or maybe they played "good cop, bad cop" together to win disputes with others. No doubt Vegeta would be the best "bad cop" ever.

He didn't know what to make of her next act. She had returned wearing a karategi and sandals. Barely containing a smile, she looked up at him. "Come get your coffee. You act like you've never seen this attire before. Aren't you familiar with martial arts?"

" _Familiar_ isn't the way I would describe it," he said frostily. "I know how to fight. What are you planning?"

"Oh, stop being suspicious. Sometimes I wear my gi while I'm creating. I'm also taking a class after we're done here today."

Vegeta stood quietly, sipping his coffee, until she finished preparing her tools. "I'm sure your sensei would be _so proud_ watching you 'create' in traditional clothing, madame. It's disrespectful."

Bulma closed the shades. "We're starting now, so stop talking. It disrupts my concentration. Think happy thoughts if that's possible. Did you review the fabrics as I asked? Actually, let's begin there first and work backward."

 **8:30 a.m.  
**  
"So what did you and Nappa discuss last night?"

Bulma looked up briefly and then continued working. Vegeta stepped aside, placing his arms at his sides. "I do have ways of making people talk, so I will ask once more. What did you and my bodyguard discuss? Oh, and don't bother lying. I almost always know."

"Why don't you ask him?" she replied, retracting her measuring tape. "He works for you, not me. Now stand still and let me finish."

Vegeta's eyes darkened. His wrath could be as deadly as a black mamba's venom if pushed too far, and yet she seemed completely oblivious. "I... am…losing my patience with your disrespect."

"Then get the hell out, because your tantrums are boring me," Bulma said calmly. "You didn't have to return here, but you did on your own volition. Why?"

"Oh, I don't know, woman! So far you've allowed me to break several of your petty little rules! I guess you shouldn't stop now! _Is boring you a violation_ _too_? Would that be rule number two-thousand and sixty-three? Maybe I should stop counting as we approach infinity. Do you even know what infinity means?"

His body radiated heat like a coal furnace _._ With great interest, Bulma watched his hands and eyelids twitch as he tried to contain himself. This man just couldn't stop being crabby. He provoked people and then had the nerve to be annoyed when his bullshit got called out. She burst out laughing.

For a moment Vegeta looked baffled. Then his temper ignited. She was reacting like…like he a circus clown?

"I wasn't being funny! What are you laughing at?!"

"Yes, you were," Bulma said, giggling, "and it's amazing that you don't realize it. I swear, were you punished as child for laughing at yourself? Being able to helps one's overall mood, I believe."

Panting from anger, he stepped down from the fitting platform. "What if I said that I was punished – _often_ – for doing just that? Does that help _your mood_ , Ms. Brief? _Does it?!_ "

Her mirth disappeared instantly. A door opened with him in a way she hadn't expected. "How did… you deal with it, Vegeta?"

"I accepted, like any other first-born son of a traditional king would," he said quietly. "Now, are _we done_ for today?"

"No," she said, firmly patting his shoulder. "We are not done yet."

He grabbed her arm, tugging it sideways. "I _believe_ you have touched me _enough_."

Looking into his eyes, Bulma pulled in her right arm, closed fist, down past her hip. "Actually, I haven't even started, and we both know you don't want to leave for that reason. _Now get on your knees_ and tell me what's really on your mind."


	5. Teach Me

**8:32 a.m. - "The Art of War"**

Vegeta stared at her with disbelief. "Get down my knees? _Have you lost_ _your mind_? Is this some kind of joke? I am the soon-to-be sovereign of a country – a country with, you know, some authority – and you speak as if I were a peasant."

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Bulma crossed her arms and moved back. "You call your people peasants? What are we, in the Dark Ages?"

Vegeta waved his hands. "Wait! Wait! Wait! Don't change the subject. What the hell was that command all about?"

"Provocation, Vegeta. I'm curious how you function considering how easily angered you are. Have you not read _The Art of War_? There's this verse in it - oh yes, I remember now. 'If your opponent is of choleric temper…"

He turned his back. "'…Then seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant.' Yes, I know. Chapter one, verse twenty-two."

"So you understand my point then."

"Point taken, Ms. Brief. Now here's my question. Do you consider our exchange to be warlike?"

"Only if you allow it to be." She bowed to him with her feet pressed together.

Vegeta's jawline hardened, matching his steely gaze. He disliked this challenge. All fights should be taken seriously, practice or not - even if one never expected to battle within a lifetime. More, Bulma had the audacity to quote from one of the most important books on wartime strategy – to him! Americans were likable enough but some ventured too far with their playfulness during serious matters. There had been a time when formality mattered.

"You know you are outclassed."

Bulma remained hunched over, keeping her arms at her sides. "Is it beneath you to spar with a woman? Try me. I just showed a sign of respect. _Onegaishimasu_."

"No, your smugness is showing," he said, bowing to her. "My mother was my first teacher."

They stood up upright with their feet facing each other. Fists closed, they moved their arms on each side of their bodies, each bending their knees slightly.

 _"Kiai!"  
_  
Bulma's closed-fisted left arm moved backward, while her right arm jutted straight ahead to punch Vegeta from both sides. He moved back methodically, arms crossed, swaying past her jabs at his chest with ease.

He raised his voice but spoke casually. "Your straight punches are too high. As you've noted quite often, I'm not that tall – and your shoulders are too tense." He quickly stepped forward, pushing one leg back. _"Kiai!"_

His left hand snapped backward, sounding like a thunderclap, while his right hand thrust within an inch of Bulma's face. Her aqua eyes were calm, peaceful - more beautiful than he cared to admit. He could have crushed every bone. Maybe his hand could have slipped. Unlikely, but still possible. They breathed together with no strain. He shook his head, faking disgust, to contain his fleshly arousal. He felt drugged. What did this woman fear? His darker side wanted to know more.

"Absolutely dreadful!" he bellowed. "Have you not learned any appropriate blocking techniques? I refuse to continue. Try yoga. This hobby doesn't suit you."

Bulma moved into a front stance, knee up, and kicked. Vegeta moved into a downward block, deflecting the blow. His eyes rose like a watchful cat as he licked his lips.

" _Tch_. Were you trying to hit my balls on purpose? You could've broken that dainty little foot. I like the red toenail polish, by the way. Now can we move on please?"

Bulma bowed. " _Arigato gozaimashita_ , _sensei_."

Annoyed, Vegeta bowed to complete their kata. "Do not mock me, Ms. Brief. I am… no sensei. Use the honorific for those who've earned it – who deserve it. Now that your ridiculous game is over, what is this about?"

Bulma beckoned him to follow her to examine the fabric swatches. He had chosen an artisan-produced wool, made in northern Italy, with a subtle royal-blue herringbone – a superb selection. "I willingly humbled myself to learn from you," she replied, "and, despite your protesting, you chose to teach. Now that you've demonstrated your capacity for service, are you comfortable enough now to be taught? You came here to learn, and I have experiences to share."

"Teach me?" Vegeta snorted and checked his watch. "You've had your fun. I just had a fabulous blood pressure spike from that stimulating exercise. Now I can conduct important world affairs with the vigor of a ninety-year-old on his deathbed. If I were a religious man, I would request last rites."

Smiling, Bulma tapped his nose. "And hell would welcome you with open arms! As you said, our session is over. We made progress, but you must stop dawdling over your fabric and clothing choices. That blue herringbone make a dashing suit on you. The fun part is selecting accessories, which you seem to have a good eye for."

"Ms. Brief, I have a good eye for many undertakings," he said, lowering his voice. "Time and again people have underestimated me and my countrymen and women. That creates an advantage, because…"

"'All warfare is based on deception,'" Bulma said. "Chapter one, verse eighteen. Point taken, your highness."

Vegeta clapped slowly. "Bravo, madame. Very, very good. Also, if by learning you mean that my psychological and intellectual abilities would benefit from your ever-increasing personal peculiarities, then I would suggest climbing down from your high horse. That's not what I'm paying you for."

"Indeed." Bulma left for the kitchen. "You can't pay me for the gift I'm offering, Vegeta, if you accept. I'm still not sure if you're ready anyway. Finish dressing and I'll meet you at the door shortly."

 _That's it. She's bonkers. I always liked that strange colloquialism: "bonkers." Calling her crazy is boring. She would say I was being sexist. Maybe Nappa was right for calling me a fool. But god, she is interesting.  
_  
Re-entering the sound-masked studio ended Vegeta's musing. The burden of seriousness returned. He picked up the blue fabric to meditate on his choice. He would plead for his country at the United Nations in this first suit. Plead. The word angered him beyond words. Despite its troubles, Hegemone was a proud country. For a thousand years his people had fought for, established, and were determined to maintain their independence. Wars and foreign occupations had come and gone, but they were still there. They were warriors… who wanted to be left alone. Now they faced another threat to their freedom, and his father had been indecisive and argumentative about making necessary decisions. The country had to secure its place in the post-modern era, which would force dynamic changes to everyone's lives, including the royal family.

Worst of all, Vegeta didn't want to be king. Nappa was the only person close enough to suspect it, although they never discussed it. The queen probably would have noticed her son's reluctance had she been healthier. Her decline increased Vegeta's emotional distance from others. He had to swallow that pain. The king had taught him well in that regard. His younger brother's welfare also concerned him. Yes, he had earned others' opinion of him as a temperamental, brattish playboy, but he had more insight about life's complexities than others gave him credit for. That insight helped him make careful strategic decisions, and other times it demoralized his spirit. He had been told from childhood that greatness was expected, and yet it appeared that some – his father included - were determined to limit his attempts to meet those demands.

Preoccupation had made him unaware of Bulma's return, which made her curious. He was guarded about everything, except then.

"Hey, weren't you the one complaining about time?"

"Hmm." He sighed and turned around. "What?"

Bulma took the fabric from his hand. "You made a huge fuss earlier about your busy schedule. Let's not keep you much longer from those grownup discussions with other world leaders. Leave. I will choose the appropriate fabrics and colors for your other suits."

Vegeta closed the swatch book and pulled out his sunglasses. " _Hn._ Are you seeking acknowledgement for doing what's expected? Most teachers don't expect gratuitous thanks from their pupils."

Bulma pointed at the door. "No, they don't, technically. When the student is successful and reaches a deeper understanding about themselves, only then can the teacher feel satisfied with training. Vegeta, your problem is that you're scared. You don't know how to be vulnerable, which makes sense to me given your upbringing and the expectations others have burdened you with. However, if you allow yourself to hold back because fear, then there's nothing I can do."

" _How dare you._ _I have had enough of this_. God forbid that you consider the sincerity of my interest in you, both as an artist and as a fascinating woman, as insane as it sounds! What could you possibly teach me personally at this point in my life that I'm not already aware of about myself? You're playing games."

Unmoved by his growing resentment, Bulma drew on the sketch pad next to him. " _Stop it right now, and stop lying to yourself_. You have some nerve to say that I'm playing games. From the beginning you wanted me because I said no - not necessarily because you wanted me, Bulma, the person standing in front of you. You say your interest is sincere, but right now all I see a peevish man-child who doesn't know what the hell he wants. Do you really understand what your tastes are at all – in women or sex or in life? What will you say 'yes' to? What are you willing to explore? Where would you draw the line and say 'no'? How much of yourself are you willing to cede to another? Can you submit and be enriched by the experience? Can you dominate without misusing? Can you use rules, or the lack thereof, to set your mind, body, and spirit free?"

Her words had shaken his emotions and pride, but there was no way in hell this could continue. His eyes fixated on the door. The winding half-smile on his face could have frozen the Hudson River. "If you will excuse me, I do have a meeting."

Bulma blocked his exit. " _No, damn it._ _How dare you, Vegeta._ You've come to my home repeatedly and played mind games with yourself. This dance ends now. _You can build trust with another beyond_ _the mere act of sex_. You may come here at my invitation to learn how, but you must give as much as you receive. I have a past, and I haven't always done things that I'm proud of, but I promise that I won't betray your trust or intimacy. But that also goes both ways. Beyond that, there won't be outrageous obligations. _We_ set the boundaries. _We_ agree to break them if necessary, but _we_ are not just having sex – because, as I said earlier, _I am no one's fuck toy_. I'm more than that."

Vegeta looked away. "Move – now. I won't come here again. You're skilled enough to design my clothing without more fittings."

Bulma draped her index finger over her cheek. "If you want these clothes, which I know you do, then we'll finish our work together under my rules. Otherwise, I have no problem returning your advance payment. Normally I would keep it, but in your case I wouldn't feel right. Also, if we continue I won't mention my other offer again. I force myself on no one."

Vegeta's deep-throated laughter echoed through the hallway as his bodyguard followed him. "Keep the money. Don't let your foolish conceit overcome good financial sense."

Bulma shut the door and returned to her sketching. She imagined how Vegeta's dress shirt and tie would balance against the suit's lapels. Would his tie match a color from Hegemone's flag, or would he merely wear a flag pin? So many options to consider. He would look flawless. Anything less would be unacceptable.

The prince sat sullenly in the SUV's cavernous back seat after leaving the studio. Being called a "peevish man-child" was bad enough, but to have this woman diagnose him as sexually repressed was the height of arrogance - and make no mistake, that's what she did. It would have been easier for him had she declared him "emotionally unavailable." Nappa said that almost daily.

"I'm changing clothes at the penthouse, general. I'll meet you at the conference site."

Nappa cursed under his breath. He almost wished the prince hadn't called with this nonsense. "You didn't bring your business attire to Ms. Brief's studio?"

Vegeta rubbed his eyes wearily. "Nappa, not now, please. I'm hanging up. You can't call me rude since I said please."

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong, or should I wait until you're annoyingly drunk again?"

"Okay then," Vegeta said, lighting a cigar. "Would you prefer arguing about your top-secret visit with Bulma while I'm sober and pissed off? Did you think I wouldn't figure it out?"

They hung up on each other. He quickly set aside their quarrel when the SUV's secure phone rang. Expecting to hear from his father, he took a deep breath to prepare.

"Son, where are you?"

" _Mother?_ How did… are you well?"

"Of course I'm not, Vegeta, but that's okay. I wanted to hear your voice. Are you giving the general a hard time? That's a stupid question. Sure, you are. Be nice."

"This sounds like one of your better days, but I would prefer that you save your strength, mother. And as I recall, learning to be 'nice' wasn't father's highest priority – or yours."

"Prince Vegeta, I wanted to you learn how not to be taken advantage of – so yes, that means you can't always be nice. However, I didn't expect you to grow up believing the absolute worst in others until proven otherwise. You're not all the way there like your father, thankfully. While you're fighting the good fight for Hegemone in the U.S., please do something good for yourself. Don't be self-destructive. When… are you coming home, son?"

He closed his eyes. "Soon, my queen," he said quietly. "Soon. I haven't forgotten about you."

* * *

 **4 p.m., Oct. 9, Friday**

 **"Simple Acts"**

"Zeus, may I borrow your Bleecker Street studio while you're traveling?"

Bulma didn't have to see his face to sense her friend's irritation. His heavy breathing though the speakerphone sounded like a wind tunnel.

"May I ask why? Did your home burn down yesterday?"

"Oh, don't be like that. I need to create a mannequin bust for the prince's clothes."

"Ugh! Really, Bulma, is all of this pomp-and-circumstance necessary? You're making him sit for a body cast now? Let me guess. You haven't asked him yet either. Which reminds me, what happened last Friday anyway? I've waited for a week, and we now have a half hour to chat before I get on my plane. Spill it, sister."

"Are you loaning me the studio or not, Mr. Brickey? It's not like I don't have your keys. I'm being courteous."

"You should not make a body cast alone. You need an assistant."

Bulma jumped up and down swinging the phone in her hand. "Zeus! Zeus! Zeus!"

"All right, already, you spoiled brat! Just don't make a mess. My apprentice will be there working. Make sure your visits don't overlap with hers. I don't need your weirdness or Vegeta's bad attitude scaring her away. That said, it sounds like you've two have established a normal working relationship. I'm glad."

"Well, not really," Bulma replied sheepishly. "I have to go now, though. I'll explain later. Love you much. Have a good trip! Bye!"

"Damn it, Bulma!"

With that taken care of, all she could do was wait for Vegeta to respond. She had more than enough design work to keep her busy anyway. Avoiding another meeting with her was a form of bondage. His submission would have to be given freely. Everything was out in the open. Now he had a choice.

She opened a bottle of Merlot. At first she considered inviting her sister for dinner. Tights had been everywhere lately except for New York, ironically, since she was dead-set on seeing Bulma move back there. Bulma had been miffed with her for being distant, but they would work out their differences eventually.

She liked watching the cherry-colored wine swirl in the glass. Simple acts could be spectacularly beautiful if one paid close attention. She looked at her phone as the doorbell rang and straightened her hair.

"I'll be there shortly."

She carried the bottle downstairs, along with another wine glass. Sunset was quickly moving in, casting a hazy shadow through the skylight. Her eyes, lips, cheekbones settled into seriousness as she opened the door. The stunning, proud man standing before her was dressed in a black double-breasted wool overcoat. His eyes flickered from underneath the matching porkpie hat. He removed it and nodded as he entered. She grabbed his hair, driving her fiery tongue deep into his mouth.

"You made an excellent choice." She stepped back. "I am glad you returned, and I am listening. Now tell me, Prince Vegeta, _what do you want?"_

"I want… you to teach me."

She took his hand.


	6. Of Diamonds and Granite

**Summary: Vegeta's mettle is being tested from all sides. Bulma's education about his emotional complexity takes on a different meaning.**

* * *

 **4:30 p.m. - "Sketching"**

 _I could fall in love with her - love - but that would be ridiculous. It wasn't just this first kiss. Bulma's confidence is rock-solid. I'm unsure how much she expected mine not to be. As she greets me, I don't know if I would describe my modesty in that way, though. Perhaps I would call it cautiousness. Of course I am cautious. Why wouldn't I be? Did our colloquy a week ago about "learning to submit" mean actual submission? I cannot speak for other men, but the king raised me to believe that submission was as odious during sex as it was in leadership. For him, it's a humiliating admission of defeat worthy of severe ridicule. The respect many of our countrymen show to my family and ruling governors doesn't fit this narrow definition. All of my life Nappa had been an exacting trainer and proud leader for the royal military and for me, but I recognized early that he doesn't see the world as the king does. Neither does my mother, Danae, whom the general has always loved. Oh yes, I know - now, in my adulthood. Mother had been betrothed to the king early in life, when they were 13 years old, until they married at 21. Although she and Nappa were from different social classes and bloodlines, they had studied at the same schools through their teenage years. He is intellectually gifted. So is she. His training took precedence eventually, but he found ways to see her until his military rank allowed formal access within the royal court._

 _I still wonder if I am indeed their love child. There had been whispers. Nappa had shaved his head long ago, but I have seen pictures from his youth. My younger brother Tarble resembles the king. I have what some would call a sturdy physique and thick hair, unlike them. I resemble Danae more. However, the king and I share my "below average" height. Besides that, my smart mouth and fits of anger have always made me a target for mockery – although not as much anymore since I'm skilled at kicking ass both mentally and physically. People often find the easiest, unimaginative insults to piss others off when they're unhappy themselves: fat, ugly, bald, short, stupid, slow, retarded, crippled, poor - whatever. I'm more creative. However difficult I may be, it's just part of who I am. I have my reasons. Fuck the rest._

 _I am beginning to doubt myself as Bulma holds my hand. She is right. I am scared. I have always lived by my own strength, or so I believed. Tell me, what is more important than one's own strength? Now I am even more confused. Nappa has been the long-suffering target of my frustration precisely because he cares so much for me. I sometimes feel ashamed about appearing weak to him. I am accustomed to being less-than-perfect in King Vegeta's eyes, but the general is different. Mother is a patient, wise soul as well. Her eventual loss will be devastating, but I must endure my grief honorably._

 _Bulma kisses me again, pushing my body against her drafting table. My senses are crescendo, intensifying like a waterfall upon closer approach. Now she's licking and sucking my finger like she's searching for a pulse. I wonder when her tender touch will cease. A part of me doesn't want it to; the other part demands it. I want stormy and gentle: carnal pleasure weaving naturally between the hardness of diamond and the softness of talc. Maybe my nature is granite instead, requiring excavation and polishing. That stone of who I am is craggy; therefore, roughness is required until the finished product is smooth. Is this submission or a form of control?_

Vegeta grasped both of Bulma's arms, placing them at her side. She looked at him and then retrieved her wine glass. The Merlot's scent was as almost as perfect as her kiss, he thought.

"Are you having second thoughts, Vegeta?"

"I wouldn't say that. Competitiveness is in my nature. In my mind, although I expressed my desire to be here, I feel like you've won in some way."

Bulma continued studying his careful movements as they walked together. "Interesting. Perhaps you have won instead. You're challenging your perception of yourself willingly with someone who encourages it. Her index finger moved in a "z" pattern as he turned - a command. "Remove your shirt slowly, and stand underneath this ceiling light with your arms behind your head. I want to observe you from a different view."

His skeptical eyes darted past her hand. "How is this different from what you've seen already?"

"Would you _prefer_ that I rip your fucking clothes off?" Bulma's voice was serene, a stark contrast to her forceful response. "They could be shredded by the time I'm done with you, although maybe not this evening. I do not care about pretension, but you might since that outfit is… expensive."

" _Hn_. Perhaps it will be the other way around, Ms. Brief - and I can always buy new clothes."

Bulma raised her index finger again, pointing to the ceiling. "Look at my hand carefully. The sign means 'Listen, don't speak.' Take note of it. I'm asking you politely." Then, before she could continue, an unexplainable force jolted her. Vegeta's subdued expression resembled a Tibetan wolf: sharp face and elevated eyebrows, with dark, searching eyes. His true fierceness as a man – as a person - had been revealed through these windows into his soul, and Bulma felt like her breath had been snatched. How could the prince not recognize this power within himself? Why had he chased butterflies for so long?

Bulma was no mystic, but she knew his was a spiritual matter. Perhaps Nappa and Zeus were right. Maybe she should have walked away, but now she just couldn't. She and the prince would learn each other's ways and bodies through eroticism, and then go beyond that. Romantic attachment would neither be demanded nor expected – those rules remained – but their connection wouldn't be short-lived. He would tell his story. _  
_  
"Remind me what I get out of this again?" he asked.

Bulma whistled to turn on the stereo. She held up a rope - one of several hanging on the wall. "Well, for starters, maybe you'll be tied up, spanked, and broken – in a pleasant way – or maybe you'll practice self-restraint without toys. The latter can be just as rewarding. In fact, you are doing it now. You're testing yourself… and me. That's good. Your pants are starting to bother me, though. I want them removed so I can study you more, but I'll be patient until we agree on the rules of this engagement – if you're still up to it."

The way she saw through him was uncanny. Her soothing voice crisscrossed his conscious mind seamlessly. Her black opened-toed leather heels rapped assertively on the floor as she drifted behind to embrace his waist. He leaned back, delighting in her delicate fingertip-inspection of his chest. Her strokes followed the chords of the violin concerto surrounding them. Then her hands landed beneath his sculpted pectorals, learning them, until she pinched his hardened nipples. Her soft, winding tongue inched between his shoulders, falling along the notches of his spine, massaging each vertebra like an abstract artist's paintbrush. His head fell slightly as her finger pressed deep into the dimple above his buttocks. He inhaled with force, clasping his lips.

Bulma pressed harder, forcing him to pant. " _Don't_ … move while I'm sketching you."

"And what if I do, madame?" He felt himself getting wet, and this was just the beginning. "Kiss me again."

"Are you asking or telling, Vegeta?"

"What does it sound like?"

"Hmm." Bulma released him and moved back. "You may put your arms down now. I do prefer being called madame in this instance, but I wasn't through sketching, which you were enjoying. Have you ever pleasured a woman like I'm doing now with you?"

Vegeta looked confused. "Pleasured?"

Bulma interlaced her fingers with his, leading him to the stairs. "Appreciating the finer tactile sensations. What seems simple can be the hardest feat to achieve. It takes time. Now then, what are we agreeing to?"

He nodded toward the side table. "I… I think I might need more wine, actually."

Bulma bit the rim of her wine glass. "That's fine, but ask yourself this: 'Why now?' Maybe you're uncomfortable with your feelings and need wine to help manage them? Or maybe you're nervous about pleasing me… eventually."

Being who he was, no matter hard he tried, Vegeta just couldn't let her have the last word. "I _am not_ nervous. I…I…"

Bulma immediately raised her index finger, silencing him. "Remember, you can leave anytime you want, although I would like you to stay. Do you want to leave?"

Visibly upset, Vegeta released her hand. "I want to touch you in the way you've touched me – and do more than that! _I want to fuck you, Bulma._ There, I said it! _I want to fuck you_ \- but no, _you don't fuck your clients_ , whatever the hell that means _!_ I don't want a mind fuck! I knew I shouldn't have come here. Not for this!"

"If you want to touch me in the way I touched you, then you don't just want to fuck," Bulma replied softly. "In any case, when you're ready to change the narrative you've lived with and share that experience with me, I'll be here. I want to know your story. You have value, and you always have the right to say no. Do you still want to kiss me? We can do that. I would like that very much. However, I don't believe we should go too far beyond it considering the way you feel now."

" _I am_ _leaving_ ," he muttered.

Actually, he really wanted one of her high heels planted firmly on his chest. He never considered doing that with other women. Not once. When was bored, he occasionally allowed the ladies to believe they were domineering him during sex. Listening to their grunts and simplistic commands entertained him. He had been arrogant, but he saw something completely different with Bulma. He sighed heavily, shaking his head until he slammed the entrance shut. He cupped her cheeks, gnawing hungrily at her until she rammed his body repeatedly against the door. Startled by her ferociousness, Vegeta's eyes widened as the woman's tongue slid around his mouth until she couldn't breathe. She wanted to lose her breath, it seemed, and he couldn't drink enough nectar from her fleshy lips. Where the hell did her strength come from? Did he just _allow_ her to do this? Where did his physical strength go? Her grip on his hair sharpened, nearing a painful threshold – and god, he loved it!

Bulma then bit his shoulder to bruise him. Satisfied with the results, she licked and kissed and licked and kissed the small welt, until she sucked again. The sweat pouring down her chest intensified the perfume that was driving him mad. He pulled her head up, deeply kissing her, and whispered in her ear.

" _More_."

" _More what, Vegeta?_ _Say it._ "

" _Bite down until you draw blood, woman!"_ he growled. _"That's what I want! Stop holding back, damn it!_ "

Bulma broke the skin just enough until he sighed, easing his agitation. He was touching himself now, arms pleading with her body to relieve his throbbing, ravenous hardness. Breathing in his musky scent, Bulma's head and neck swayed like a wind-blown prairie rose - until she released him, pushing back from his shoulders gently. He looked down, almost appearing embarrassed by his behavior.

She kissed both of his hands to ease his discomfort. He had done well. "Hey, it's okay," she said, lifting his chin. "You're okay. I told you I will be here. I am glad we could trust each other with that experience, at least for this evening."

Defiant, Vegeta turned away. " _Tch._ Don't expect me to be some simple-minded pushover. That's not my personality, nor will it ever be – for anyone."

Bulma nodded and opened the door. "And don't expect me to quietly accept any obnoxious bullshit from you. That's not my personality, nor will it ever be - and I will call you out on that crap _every single time._ However, our sexual exploration is a different growth experience. There are many roles to play. Meet me in Greenwich Village on Sunday at Zeus's studio. The address is 173 Bleecker Street. We need to create a mannequin bust to use for future outfits. That's my last request. One will remain at a tailor's shop permanently for you. The other will be shipped to Hegemone. It's a messy process, so wear those tattered clothes I saw when we met in California."

"My clothing wasn't tattered," he grumbled. "I had my reasons for wearing them."

Bulma smiled. "Whatever you say. Good night, your highness."

* * *

 **8 a.m., Nov. 10, Tuesday**

 **"** **Duty"**

Vegeta stood in front of the bedroom mirror straightening his suit and tie. He looked immaculate for his United Nations speech, almost as if he were ready to conquer the world. Undeniably, Bulma had outdone herself with the design work. He had been awake since 4 a.m., his typical schedule on days when was expected to perform official duties. He recalled Bulma writing in a text several days before that he wasn't a morning person. He soon responded that she was wasting valuable time harassing him when she could be working. She sent an emoji with an angry red face, meant to depict him, followed by "Haaaaah!" He then responded with five angry faces and three middle fingers, followed by a grinning devil.

Their silliness had kept him sane, along with their other "work." Smiling, he pulled back his shirt cuff to observe the giant rope burn on his forearm. At least the bruise wasn't purple anymore. It had already been a week.

Bulma instructed him to call at specific times, sometimes masking her voice to give dirty-mouthed demands. Other times she deliberately made hilarious requests, but the rule was Vegeta couldn't laugh at them no matter how absurd. Once, she instructed him "to put that well-paid-for education to work," requiring him to use outdated vocabulary to describe his sexual arousal. He asked later if she had a crossword puzzle fetish. Bulma sniffed and hung up the phone. Not hearing from her for two days – his punishment - felt like ten years.

Nappa remained displeased. Vegeta spent at least one night or two nights with Bulma as he traveled between Hegemone the U.S. and other countries before the speech, but the general conceded that the prince was in better spirits. Vegeta knew Bulma wouldn't contact him shortly before or after the his speech, although he wouldn't have minded if she did. He probably wouldn't see her again until the White House dinner weeks later unless a catastrophe happened. Many social activities he attended that year including the gala in London disguised his attempts to strengthen relationships with potential political and business allies. Knowing Bulma would attend that the party was a bonus. Now, their "business meetings" together had become the antidote for his mental exhaustion.

He avoided the thought of ending of their connection, but the walls of duty were closing in. Civil war in Hegemone was possible between ethnic Saiyans and Yardrats, which would be a disaster. _It could not happen._ His U.N. speech would emphasize the country's right to self-governance, seeking international support to warn the neighboring Tuffle government against attempts to weaken his country's leadership. Saiyan and Yardrat nativists were being influenced by outside agitators seeking to install a puppet government before positive political changes were fully achieved - and remove current civil leadership, along with Vegeta's family. This "open secret" angered the prince immensely. The Tuffles denied the extent of their meddling in Hegemone's affairs, of course, saying that they were guarding their economic interests and stability along the two countries' borders, including oil and natural gas production, in case all hell broke loose.

Yardrats were invited hundreds of years ago to live peacefully under the Saiyan kingdom's leadership after both sides had fought off invaders. Now they spoke each other's languages and shared a single economy. Those who wanted the country to remain unified had to find a solution. Thanks to Vegeta's mother and his late grandparents' influence, most of Hegemone's citizens were reaching higher education levels similar to wealthier countries, and more people felt good about the economy – but that wasn't enough for the nativists, who said too many citizens still felt left behind. Each side blamed the other for existing problems - along with the royals. Vegeta's lifestyle, in particular, appeared far more extravagant recently. Many didn't know was he was using connections to make money honestly and _separately_ from his inherited wealth – to be his own man as much as he could.

Vegeta and Danae knew change had to happen, with their family ceding its role as head of government to a full, democratically elected parliament, with some exceptions. Obviously those who benefited from the current situation protested and told the king to maintain it, including Vegeta's cousin Raditz and his many supporters - even if their short-sighted opposition risked tearing the country apart. Nappa finally left the Royal Army to support the prince for these reasons. He couldn't bear seeing Vegeta become consumed by his own mental demons, not when the country they both loved was on the verge of a better existence. How soon the hateful, traitorous knives would come after Vegeta with a vengeance was only a matter of time, the general believed.

"Sir, are you ready?"

Vegeta attached a flag pin to his lapel and turned around. "Yes, general, I am."

 **4 p.m.** **– "Slow Burn"**

Bulma wondered whether to answer the phone. She had expected Vegeta to call but felt like it was ill-timed – not so much for her, but for him.

"Hello, Bulma."

"Hi."

"I just… wanted to compliment you on the tailoring."

"That's what you pay me for."

Smirking, Vegeta peered into his glass of vodka. "Indeed."

Bulma activated the speakerphone to continue cooking. "I'm sure the other world leaders were just as impressed with your speech."

"You watched then?" Vegeta heard his voice lift, but not much. He scolded himself for being a little too excited that Bulma had made the effort.

"Of course I did, your highness. My vanity centers on my work. Did you suddenly forget that?"

"I was testing you."

Bulma laughed softly. "Sure you were. What do you want? I am preparing dinner for guests."

"I'm leaving the day after tomorrow."

"And you want to see me again, I take it."

Vegeta grunted. "What does it sound like?"

" _Excuse me?"_ Bulma put her spoon down. "Are you summoning me now like I'm commoner, or maybe the royal consort? I believe we do have rules to follow, yes?"

"Forget it." Vegeta said with mild irritation. "I won't disturb you any longer."

Bulma laughed. "Heavens, man, there's no reason to pout. I can hear your cheeks puffing like a balloon."

"I'm not pouting!"

"You are," Bulma replied, sounding like a school headmistress. "Have patience. I would love having you here, but I listened closely to you today and saw your face. Return to Hegemone. That is where you should be right now. I am not going anywhere."

The prince sipped leisurely from his glass. "Maybe you can visit my country before the White House dinner, all expenses paid."

"No."

Vegeta knew he couldn't ask again. Her firm refusal jabbed at his ego, but reassurance of her future availability comforted him. He opened the door to the penthouse balcony while they talked. The cool air tempered the slow burn Bulma ignited inside during their evenings together. He felt the ligature marks on his arm again, recalling the pain and pleasure from the experience.

"Your silence tells me you're thinking way too hard about this, so stop," Bulma said. "Your tuxedo will be delivered two days before we see each other again in Washington."

"I hope your dinner goes well, madame."

"It will. Please, take care of yourself."

They hung up while Vegeta poured more vodka. A light knock on the door an hour later steered his increasingly hazy mind back to some semblance of reality.

"Sir?"

"Come in, Nappa."

Vegeta's reserved response concerned the general, along with the drinking. He observed the bottle to see how much alcohol was left.

"You did well today, sir."

"I know that." Vegeta said, handing a glass to him. "Celebrate with me."

Nappa shook his head, rejecting the empty invitation. "Do you really know that, Vegeta?" He didn't want to argue, but the prince was often hardest on himself after huge achievements. Looking back on their training together, Nappa felt partially responsible. It's not what he wanted for him.

Vegeta slammed the glass on the bar, scattering shards everywhere. "Why are you doing this?! I'm not some fragile weakling!"

Clasping his hands behind his back, Nappa walked to the balcony. "I never said that you were. You know damn well I don't think that, so stop twisting my words."

"But you do think it, Nappa! You told me as much some time ago. I suppose you told Bulma that too?"

"No, I said that you were losing focus. In my own way, I also said you were becoming embittered. Look at how you've been drinking lately. Do not allow your intensity to work against you. Today I saw a leader. I am here to ensure that it continues."

" _No, general_ ," Vegeta said, shoving him from behind. " _You are here out of guilt_ , because you have never been man enough to say that I'm your son. Look at me! Look at me! Just how long did you plan to maintain your dishonorable façade?"

Nappa didn't move. "If I am your father, then perhaps you could have mercy on me. Perhaps this man wanted to spare you and the queen embarrassment, exile, and suffering. Maybe you could understand that this man loves his only son beyond words and always wanted a better life for him. Maybe your father thought he could handle a lonely, insecure king who suspects that his first child, born of the woman he still loves, is not his own."

"The king hates me," Vegeta said, covering his face. "You and my mother allowed this. I have spent a quarter of my entire life believing something was inherently wrong with me - that I would never be good enough - because of that man. I remember _the exact day_ he turned on me. Although had always been tough, he did care for me before then. You saw the change! His so-called love became capricious. He grew jealous. I was only 13, and I have mourned ever since."

"Do not blame, Danae," Nappa said with tears in his eyes. "She planned to tell King Vegeta, risking everything. I didn't care what happened to me, but I just couldn't allow that. Trust me, it would have been worse. Son, I tried my best to protect you and surround you with others to assist. So did your mother. I'm so sorry."

" _Get out of my sight, Nappa – now_!"

Nappa bowed low. "Sir, hate me all you want, but don't reject your mother. Please. You need each other now. You and your brother are the joys of her life."

" _Get out!"_ Vegeta could barely breathe. He threw the vodka bottle against the wall. Hot tears seeped between his fingers as he dropped on his knees. Nappa couldn't resist holding the prince's shoulders until, at last, he brought his weeping son into his arms. He looked up to the heavens, grateful that he could finally embrace _his boy_ in the way he always wanted from the moment Vegeta was born. If they never did again, the memory would be enough to sustain the general until his death.

 **Midnight - "I am alone"  
**  
Bulma worked late in the studio to avoid eating more chocolate cake. Classical music played low in the background, and her guests had left well-fed and happy. The evening darkness calmed her mind and body. She sketched with wide strokes, amusing herself with the overly dramatic flourishes of her charcoal penciling. Seeing the security light flicker, she examined the video on her phone. Recognizing the wool coat, her eyebrows furrowed from annoyance. Vegeta's body lay unevenly against the door, which at first seemed like a joke.

"How am I supposed to take this?" she said through the intercom. "Did you just ignore what we discussed earlier?"

"Please." Vegeta's speech slurred, almost sounding like he had been beaten. "I am alone. No one came with me. I am alone."

Alarmed, Bulma examined the video again. She rushed toward the door and paged Zeus. Vegeta's weight almost buckled her legs as he stumbled into her arms.

"Okay, okay. Put your arm around my shoulder, Vegeta. I can't drag you in. What…happened to you? How much have you had to drink? Where are Nappa and the guys? Oh my god, how could a cab driver just leave you like this?! It was a cab, right?"

Exhausted, Vegeta wagged his head. "Stop, Bulma. Please, just let me lie down somewhere."

Bulma rammed her fist on the elevator control panel and led him to the guest bedroom upstairs. She couldn't figure out what angered her more: Vegeta arriving this drunk or knowing some asshole driver left the prince to fend for himself. Yes, he was an adult, but this was unacceptable. Someone could have robbed or murdered him. This was still New York City. Assassins weren't the only ones who could put someone in a graveyard.

She had loosened some of Vegeta's clothes by the time Zeus called.

"What's happening, sweetie?"

Bulma wiped her forehead. "Vegeta is here, drunk."

"How drunk?"

"The building would explode if I lit a match next to him, Zeus."

"Holy shit! I'm coming over now. Call an ambulance, just in case."

"Zeus…"

"Goddamn it, Bulma! Do as I say right now! He could have alcohol poisoning if he's that intoxicated. Fuck the publicity!"

"I'm already calling!" she said angrily. "We can yell at each other later."

"You're…being dramatic," Vegeta said weakly. "My hearing is still good. I do… do not… need a doctor."

Bulma wanted to punch him. "You know what? You don't get to call the shots tonight! You got me?!"

Vegeta looked down. "I'm sorry. I just…wanted… someone to talk with."

Bulma inhaled to compose herself. Vegeta was clearly distressed, especially having come there this disheveled. She sat down on the bed, placing his head in her arms. "I'm here. You'll be fine. We just need to make sure you're okay. Say as much or as little to me as you choose afterward. I want nothing in return - other than you don't do this with me again. I won't tolerate it."

"I won't, Bulma."

Zeus arrived shortly before the ambulance drivers pulled up. He knelt down next to Bulma and Vegeta, who had passed out. "We're going to get you some help, buddy. I can't tame this woman by myself anymore."

Appreciative of her friend's kindness, Bulma smiled and kissed Zeus's hand. "Thanks for being here." 

* * *

**Notes: For those who read earlier chapters some time ago, I updated Nappa's age to eliminate some confusion about his relationship with Vegeta.**


	7. Tiger Lily

**Summary: Vegeta and Bulma try to say goodbye. That's easier said than done.**

* * *

 **7 a.m., Nov. 11, Wednesday**

 **"Difficult Times"**

Bulma sat next to Vegeta in a private room that Nappa had arranged. Zeus had been correct about the alcohol poisoning. Unconscious and on oxygen, the prince would need careful medical attention for hours. Clearly he wouldn't be leaving New York, maybe for another few days. Bulma wondered if he often drank this heavily.

The general spoke with the doctors for almost an hour before entering the room again, in addition to calming his own worries. He touched Bulma's shoulder from behind to speak in another room. She quickly moved away, silently communicating displeasure and anger. Tense situations usually brought out the "take care of business" side of her personality.

"You… will have to tell the newspapers something, general. The U.S. has laws against publicly disclosing some details about person's medical condition, but we both know this might get out. Tell them he was hospitalized for exhaustion and leave it there."

The way she held Vegeta's hand showed they were getting too close, Nappa thought, and she wasn't moving. "Please come with me, Ms. Brief. He is well-taken care of."

" _Oh, really?"_ She looked up. "He could have died. Where the hell were you and your throng of guards?"

Nappa sighed. This was yet another argument that he didn't need. "Thank you for everything you've done, Bulma. Please don't take offense, but it is time for you to leave."

"I am not going anywhere, at least until Vegeta wakes up."

"Would you prefer having the city police carry you out?" Nappa said coolly. "My security team, however, might be much more discreet. You should let them escort you."

Bulma walked angrily into the other room. "You have some nerve threatening me, asshole. Make it the last time. I'm not afraid of you. I said that before."

"I'll _ignore_ that petty insult since you are upset," Nappa said. "I am upset too, Bulma, but let me clear: _None_ _of this is your business_. I warned you two to leave each other alone, but neither of you listened. Of course I don't blame you for what happened, but there is much more on the line beyond your evening playtime sessions. His troubles are out in the open now, but he will pull himself together."

"Playtime lessons? Boy, you really know how to hit a girl where it hurts, you jerk. Let me ask you this. Have you really considered what Vegeta wants? _Have you?_ Maybe that's why he came to me. He kept saying he was alone and needed someone to talk with. What happened between you?"

Nappa led her back to the doorway. " _Look at him._ I have considered the prince's wants and needs more than you'll ever know. _I don't have to justify anything to you._ Also, if you haven't figured out already, he will likely cut ties with you when he recovers. He might feel ashamed and lash out. Regardless, he is bound by duty to Hegemone. Your country has endured difficult times in which your citizens have been greatly troubled and divided. I am sure you can understand that. Vegeta and others who think like him are our best hope."

Bulma didn't like what she heard, but deep down she felt Nappa was probably right. She kissed Vegeta's forehead while the general brought her coat. "That's a lot of responsibility for one person to carry. You will… let me know how he's doing, right?"

"Yes. He will be fine, my dear."

"Dear?" Bulma smiled. "Well, that's a new one, considering that I just called you an asshole."

"As I said, Ms. Brief, I may dislike your relationship with Vegeta, but it doesn't mean that I dislike you. Also, I have been called far, far worse."

* * *

 **4 p.m. "Choose Wisely "**

Cursing, Vegeta attempted to remove the oxygen and intravenous tubes when he fully awakened. A nurse standing nearby stopped him.

"Don't touch me. I'm fine. Just give me something to stop this headache."

" _Actually_ you're not fine, sir," the nurse said, unfazed. "You were unconscious. Had it not been for your friends, you would probably would be pushing up daisies in a cemetary. Now, I suggest that you keep quiet until I finish checking your vital signs. You heart rate and blood pressure are up."

"Well, aren't you the bringer of light and happiness," Vegeta said sarcastically. "Aren't nurses supposed to be gentle and servile?"

The tiny woman snorted through her laughter. "Prince Vegeta, I don't know who filled your deluded mind with that fairy tale. Keep talking and you'll soon learn how it feels to have your bowels emptied without your permission. However, out of the kindness of my heart, here's medicine for the headache."

Vegeta looked past her. "Why are you allowing her to speak to me like this?"

"She seems to be doing a good job," Nappa replied. "No reason to stop now."

The nurse laughed harder as she left. Vegeta appeared insulted, but her unapologetic sassiness had amused him. He thought about Bulma. He had wanted to talk, but now he questioned whether she would want him around anymore. Seeing her would've been better than Nappa towering above him.

"Where is she?"

"Ms. Brief left earlier."

"No shit, Nappa. I'm awake now and she's not here. Did you make her leave?"

"I think you know that Bulma isn't easily intimidated. She left by choice."

" _Hn._ I'm sure you weren't unhappy about it."

Nappa sat down and grabbed Vegeta's arm. " _Let me tell you something_. Don't you _ever_ do anything like this again! I don't care how angry you are, but you cannot endanger yourself like this – or others! Did you stop once to consider how Bulma or anyone else would be affected before you drank yourself into the hospital? Furthermore, now I must investigate why building security didn't tell anyone that you left the penthouse. How much did you promise to pay people to keep their mouths shut?"

" _Let_ _go_ ," Vegeta said defiantly. "You have no right to lecture me, _daddy_. We both know you don't give a damn about Bulma either, so stop faking concern. You seem deeply wounded that I had the nerve to become involved with someone completely on my terms and not yours - or anyone else's." He tapped his chin. "Ah, I see. You've secretly wanted me to be a pathetic eunuch for eternity."

Nappa had been meditating quietly while the prince railed. Either that, or he would smash everything in the room. "So is this how it will be from now on, son? Even when you're ill and need support, this is what I get from you? _My god, you can be downright maddening_. Vegeta, you can't be angry at the world forever, and I won't be here forever. Danae and I tried teaching how anger could be used for goodness, rather than full-on, reckless destruction. This seems like the right time to revisit those lessons."

Feeling nauseated, Vegeta turned over. "I'm not ill."

"You are!" Nappa pointed at the mirror facing them. "Look at yourself. You're going through alcohol withdrawal, son. I hate to say this, but unless you get treatment for your drinking I will be forced to tell the regional governors, king, and queen that you are unfit to represent our country's interests. They still respect my opinion enough and will want to know why. _You will be responsible for explaining that_."

"Do whatever you want," Vegeta said, waving him off. "In fact, tell them now that I'm drying out in the hospital from my near-fatal drunken stupor. You don't have to bear the shame alone, general."

" _I am not ashamed anything_ ," Nappa said sternly. "I'm also not ashamed of you, Vegeta. I suggest staying in the hospital the rest of the week while you consider my words. There are therapists here. Choose wisely."

He placed Vegeta's phone on the bed tray and walked out. The prince reclined on his pillows, holding the phone until his hands stopped shaking.

"Call tiger lily."

"Dialing tiger lily," the electronic voice replied.

Bulma was still in bed while Zeus prepared an early dinner. She had left her phone on the kitchen counter. Zeus almost burned himself on the stove after hearing it ring. The screen said "Count Dracula," plunging him into a laughing fit.

"Clearly this must be Vegeta." He walked quickly to the bedroom, answered the phone, and stuck it beneath Bulma's half-asleep face. Confused, she pawed at him like an annoyed cat.

"What the hell are you doing, Zeus? Stop."

"Take this call," he whispered. "I'm busy."

"Bulma, are you there? Are you all right?"

She slid under the bed covers. "Yes, Vegeta. I'm well, but you still don't sound good. Why aren't you resting?"

"We probably shouldn't see each other anymore."

Bulma paused. "Okay. I understand."

In this instance, Vegeta would have preferred her to be somewhat _less_ understanding. "How long did you stay this morning? You… didn't have to leave."

"I did have to leave, eventually. I thought it was best."

"What are you wearing?"

"Vegeta, really…"

"Tell me! I can't be with you anymore in the way you want – in the way that I want. Leave me with something - please."

"Silence," Bulma said softly. "You have a lot on your mind, and you're running from it in every way possible. I would do you and myself a disservice by allowing that to continue."

"Oh, let me guess. I suppose you want me to bare my entire soul now."

"Vegeta, before you passed out, I said you could tell me as much or as little as you wanted. What I cared about most was getting help for you. I see now that you've been drinking heavily for some time."

He laid his phone down. "I have to go."

Bulma held her phone against her chin, considering whether it would be good to see him again. He was returning to the lion's den in Hegemone. Would he get the help he needed?

Zeus peeked into the room. "How is he?"

"How did you know that our call was over?"

"Because my ears are as large as tires, sweetie. How about answering me now?"

"I understand why Nappa is so protective, but he said Vegeta will come back to himself. I believe that. You saw how powerful his U.N. speech was. He just needs the right kind of help and support. It's not like you and I are trying to manage a country."

Zeus placed a food tray over her legs. "I thought you said romance wasn't expected between you. I'm hearing something different."

"Zeus, nothing has changed on that end – and stop eating off my plate." Bulma grabbed his fingers. "I told you what Vegeta said when he first arrived here, and I kept thinking about it at the hospital. It broke my heart. You would have felt the same way."

"Honey, my heart broke when I saw him in your arms. For all of his faults, he is a proud man. He wouldn't have come in that condition if he wasn't hurting."

"I know."

"Then maybe you should eat the rest of my wonderful dinner and return to the hospital tonight. Forget what Nappa said for a while and just be a friend to Vegeta."

"I don't want him to run from his problems."

"Okay, but you can still sit at his bedside and say that, Bulma. He may be angry or stop talking altogether, but he will eventually appreciate that you cared enough to return. You could also hold his hand, just like you did when I was hospitalized for my heroin addiction. I was deeply ashamed, but you didn't make me feel that way. We were silent, but I felt so loved. You understood what I needed."

* * *

 **8:30 p.m. – "This Thing"  
**  
Bulma tapped her foot impatiently. She hated being in hospitals, and this disagreement wasn't easing her discomfort.

"We are under strict orders not to allow anyone to see the prince besides the medical staff, Ms. Brief."

"Is Nappa still here?"

"Yes, but…"

"But what? He makes the final decision, so get him out here. I want to speak with him."

"We don't take orders from you."

Bulma held up her phone. "Look guys, I can just call Vegeta. Would you prefer facing his wrath over blocking my entrance? Go get Nappa – now."

Nappa walked up behind her. "I am here, Ms. Brief. What is it?"

"I want to see him."

"That's obvious, and you know what my answer is."

"General, with all due respect, Vegeta is an adult who can make his own choices. That's why I asked to see you first. If you trust him to lead, then you can trust us to spend thirty minutes alone together. He may ask me to leave within five, but that will be his decision."

Nappa exhaled. In some ways Bulma's stubbornness reminded him of Danae.

"All right. You get thirty minutes. The nurses just gave him a light sedative to ease his agitation. He'll be here the rest of the week."

"Is the drinking that bad, Nappa?"

"Just go inside. You are wasting valuable time."

Bulma untied her headscarf. The room was mostly dark, except for a dimmed light over Vegeta's bed. An unfinished bag of crisps sat on the nightstand. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to be resting comfortably. Bulma decided to let him sleep, confident that Nappa would allow her to return later.

" _Why_ are you here? Did you and Zeus get bored with discussing my personal affairs?"

Bulma approached the foot of the bed. "Well, I see that sedative hasn't dulled your gift for rudeness."

"Your guilt over leaving the hospital earlier is useless, and I certainly don't need your pity," Vegeta replied. "You said exactly what you meant."

"Wow, your highness! I have been here all of two minutes. Are there any more assumptions you'd like to make? I don't mind hearing them, but Nappa set a strict time limit for our chat."

" _Oh really?"_ Vegeta raised up. "If he had his way, I would be in an institution baring my soul to people with worse problems than mine. Then I could save the world, complete with four bottles of unnecessary medication to treat the clinical depression that everyone is trying tirelessly to diagnose me with."

Bulma sat down. "There's nothing to be ashamed of. You're living multiple lives in one body. That would be hard on anyone. Just because I said don't run from your problems doesn't mean that I don't care."

"You should leave, Bulma. I am ending this _thing_ between us. I don't need any more _lessons_.'"

"Give me your hand, Vegeta."

"Oh please, woman! I was being polite, but you're a glutton for punishment. _Get out_. I'm tired."

"Fine, then. I'll take it myself."

"Will you stop it?" He smacked her palm. "Shall we try karate again?"

"I think I'd win this time, Count Dracula. You seem a little stoned from that sedative now." Bulma giggled until Vegeta flashed a slight grin, unmistakably one of mischief, as if he had stolen her favorite panties.

"Don't bet on it, Medusa." He looked away to avoid breaking down, but his grip tightened around her hand. Bulma sat quietly holding it until he fell asleep. Another hour passed before she left.

She wiped away tears after leaving his bedside. She didn't pity him. She just realized the extent of his loneliness. Nappa, who was sleeping in an adjacent room, immediately rose to escort her out.

"Why are you crying?"

"That was a long thirty minutes, general."

"Maybe my watch broke." He handed her a handkerchief. Here he was, having his heartstrings pulled by this woman. How could she possibly believe that she and Vegeta weren't falling in love? It could take a year, maybe two years, or maybe even ten, but they were on that road. He worried that Bulma might be incapable of accepting that responsibility after seeing Vegeta's life in Hegemone. Dating or marrying any head of state or politician had broken the toughest of people.

Bulma looked into the room again. "Thank you for letting me stay. May I ask something? How many close friends does he have in your country?"

"The prince has many supporters who consider themselves as friends – in spite of his reserve and crankiness. None are close. They are proud of what he represents for our country. He is fond of your cousin Olivier, though, and others he studied with at Oxford."

"And he's fond of you, of course."

"Ms. Brief, at this point Vegeta's fondness for me all depends on the week…or the millisecond. This isn't a good one, and I don't know _why_ I'm telling you this. Maybe I should see a therapist myself."

* * *

 **Noon, Nov. 17, Tuesday**

 **"Sniffles"**

Bulma burrowed into the sofa while her sister fussed over a blanket covering her.

"Give me the sketching pad, Bulma. Drink this soup instead."

"I'm not dying, big sister. I have the sniffles, not the plague."

"Thank goodness you don't, dashing around in November like it's the summer! Now you're sick and wrapped in pajamas like a mountain climber. Oh yes! Speaking of clothing, do you like my new skirt?"

"Who made it?"

Irritated, Tights tossed her long white hair. "Really, Bulma. Stop being impolite and arrogant. Father always said you'd be just like him."

Bulma threw a crayon at her. "You asked the question, Tights. Who made it?"

"Ralston."

"Tell him he did a good job. I would have trimmed the hemline, but it is attractive on you."

"I have to go," Tights replied, kissing her cheek. "Get some rest. Are you ever going to tell me more about the prince? It's not like people around town don't know that he's visited."

"This is my studio, dear. People visit. I work."

"Fine," Tights huffed. "I suppose Zeus knows _everything_."

"Stop being jealous." Bulma said, pulling her into a hug. "I love you. Go back to work."

Bulma's cold wasn't terrible, but it was enough to keep her sleepy and achy. She and Vegeta hadn't been in touch, which was fine. Nappa kindly texted her to say the prince was better and that they were leaving the U.S. soon. Then the elevator door near the kitchen clicked open. She pulled the blanket over her head. _Tights must have forgotten something. Lord, please spare me another lecture._

"Hiding from your nosy sister, Ms. Brief?"

"What?! Who?" Bulma kicked the blanket off. One foot got caught, pulling her off the sofa – face down.

Vegeta could barely stop laughing. "Do you need help?"

"No, damn it!" Bulma shouted. "I've fallen on carpet before! Ugh! I can't get this blanket off my leg! Stop laughing at me!"

Vegeta crouched down, holding out his hand. "It is interesting seeing you like this. Usually I'm on the carpet while you're tying ropes on me. Why are you wearing this dreadful sleepwear midday? Are you not well?"

"I have bit of a cold. Nothing too bad. My _nosy sister_ didn't tell you?"

"I guess she wanted to surprise you. Don't worry. She was quite pleasant. No questions asked."

"You could have called, Vegeta. You do look and sound much better, though. I am pleased."

He pressed the bridge of Bulma's nose until she sneezed multiple times. "I can't say the same for you, although your red nose and flushed cheeks are rather adorable."

"Pompous ass!" She kicked at him. "Stop it! Would you mind not making my condition worse?"

Vegeta removed his coat and hat. "My flight leaves in five hours. It's appropriate and honorable to say goodbye in person. I probably won't attend the White House dinner."

Bulma stood to find ginger tea and shortbread cookies. She peeked back a few times while Vegeta silently stared at the floor. She wanted to touch him, and to have him touch her, but this visit wasn't intended for that, she believed.

"The tuxedo will be at the shop whenever you want it," she said. "Have some cookies. Where is this brooding politeness coming from? I feel like I'm reading a Georgian-era novel. Maybe I'll start calling you Mr. Darcy."

"I always hated that worthless book, _Pride and Prejudice_." He took the tray from her. "You don't have to serve me. Be comfortable in your home. Just let me sit here with you. Will you… hold my head in your lap like last week? You helped me feel safe. I appreciated that."

She nodded. "Come." This time she fell asleep as Vegeta's comfortable body heat swathed her. After about an hour he carefully moved from their embrace, trying not to wake her. He opened the elevator door to retrieve a vase of tiger lilies left there. Then he heard Bulma sneeze.

"Damn," he muttered. "I was almost out of here."

"Vegeta, are you leaving?"

He brought the flowers to the coffee table, and Bulma could tell he was extremely displeased.

"They're gorgeous."

"I know," he said, crossing his arms. "That's why I bought them, and of course you ruined the surprise."

She flung a pillow as he seated himself again. "Well, excuse the hell out of me for being sick and near death, you grouchy goat!"

"This might help you feel better." Like a thunderbolt, Vegeta's tough, strong arms captured her. He nipped at her shoulders, ears, and neck until his sweet, burning kiss melded with her lips. Bulma couldn't protest. She didn't want to. She clung to him, listening to and feeling his hunger, and this time she was on the other side – willing to submit. They couldn't take their eyes off each other as he excitedly ripped the buttons from her pajamas like a child with a Christmas gift. Her hips danced around his torso. He smelled her fragrant hair, brushing his chin over it, gently kissing her forehead and temples.

"Thank you," she said sweetly, piercing his hardened heart and arousing him even more.

"Just breathe with me, tiger lily. I want to hear us breathe together." They pressed in harder as their inhalations and exhalations harmonized. Her body was a delectable labyrinth of nerves to caress. Each stroke could induce different sighs. Her back arched and rocked as he held her arms over her head with one hand. The other he used to remove his belt. Bulma smiled with anticipation. He returned the grin, laughing.

"So you think you're in control now, Prince Vegeta? Our lessons aren't through."

"Turn over on your stomach and s _pread your legs_."

"What if I don't want to?!" Bulma thrashed harder. "What are you going to do about it?!"

He bit her shoulder until she became rigid. " _Oh, my darling, are you sure?_ Did you think I couldn't feel it – that I couldn't smell it on you after what we've done together? You have been kind, and I would've been satisfied leaving for good after you held me today. But coming back… I will ask now: _Do you want me to go?_ " He pulled Bulma's hair. "Answer me, madame. What do you want?"

His dark, smoke-filled voice and throbbing erection pushed her senses to euphoria.

"Stay."

Vegeta's panting increased as he pressed into her back, raising her ass to his chest. "Rest your face on your arms. Do not move while my fingers travel between your legs. Consider how each one entering your body feels as I stroke those fleshy lips. _Do not moan, whimper, or sigh_. If you do, I will spank you seven times. Do you understand me?"

"Ha! Only seven?"

Vegeta curled the belt, snapping it with rattlesnake-speed on both sides of her ass. Bulma yelped.

"Quiet, my little flower. We have two hours."


	8. Powder Keg

**Summary: In New York,** **Bulma thinks of Vegeta in textures. In Hegemone with family, the prince reflects on her openness with him.**

* * *

 **Brooklyn: 11 a.m., Nov. 24, Tuesday**

" **Fairy Tales"**

It had been two weeks since Vegeta departed New York and Bulma still craved cigarettes to pacify her senses. The prince rocked her world during their final afternoon together and knew it. He skipped out the door like a victorious football player after the "conquest." Of course, in Bulma's mind they had a tie: Vegeta gave as well as he received. Her head cold disappeared within a day, too. She would never, ever tell him that part, though. She imagined him crowing triumphantly about his "healing of the sick" as if he were a mystical shaman. Maybe he caught her cold! It would have been sweet revenge for using her weakened condition to ravish her.

"Yeah, right." She smiled. Her sketching paper's roughened grooves reminded her of his gravelly voice. The lilies he bought were thriving beautifully, too - a perfect decoration for her Thanksgiving dinner table later that week. She wished him well and that he could recover from his drinking problem without anyone undermining him. Even if the news got out, she expected that Nappa would handle the situation carefully. She hoped he could.

She would miss feeling every inch of the prince, watching him take and give directions, and seeing him explore sensations that had been foreign to him. There was bondage, restraint and release, titillation, and so much more. Many "special relationships" like theirs never ended with romance or sex, but several had led to pleasurable, lifelong bonds. They were becoming friends, talking and holding and trusting each other more after every experience. Yet, for all of their days and nights together, they never had sex. Before he left, they did - and Bulma knew that if they crossed paths again, their passion would shatter walls like thin glass. She shuddered. Touching herself to relieve her lust for his body inside of hers again had become addictive. Mornings were the best and worst times for her arousal. One day she meowed from a window to shake it off, laughing, until some curious cats on the ground returned her yowls.

She wondered if the prince's opening up to her caused the emotional overload Zeus warned her about; thus, Vegeta's increased drinking to cope. Now she had mixed feelings and, perhaps, some guilt over it. She probably would have reconsidered getting involved with him in _this_ way. Still, she learned more of his story, as she intended, and he learned hers. He also sought help from her, allowing himself to show vulnerability differently - a significant breakthrough. Their connection hadn't ended per se. For now, she would witness the rest of his story from afar. That's what she expected, and that's what she accepted.

She had gone silent about Vegeta since his departure, too. Wisely, Zeus didn't broach the subject; he just observed. Bulma was locking her evolving feelings away in a vault – possibly throwing away the key. In effect, she and Vegeta seemed to be switching places emotionally. At least that's what Zeus thought. He hadn't seen light in her eyes about anyone like this in years, and he wanted it to stay there. But with the prince? Heavens. Vegeta was a powder keg of a man whose imperfections were legion.

At first Zeus thought he was crazy to consider any of this. He was concerned from the beginning, but a part of him still believed in fairy tales. Maybe all he could do was wish for a united Hegemone – and, then, for the return of an emerging king to claim his intended queen. Only time would tell.

"I may take a photo assignment in Hegemone, sweetie."

Bulma, who was dressing a mannequin, chewed harder on a pencil hanging from her mouth. "Why?"

"Why not be where the action is? Lots happening there."

"I suppose. Earth is a big place. Don't use my connection with the prince of all Saiyans _to assist_ your work."

"That would be stupid," Zeus said, laughing. "I wouldn't put it past Vegeta to boil people in oil when he's pissed, so don't worry about that. Let me tell you, honey, baby oil is _the only moisturizer_ that I want to be covered in."

She winked at him. "As long as someone attractive covers you with it."

* * *

 **Cerinthe, Hegemone: 11 a.m., Nov. 30, Monday**

 **"My Brother's Keeper"**

Vegeta and Nappa had spoken little on their return flight. All discussions focused on business matters, which suited them. The unforced silence gave them emotional space to think about their official duties, and both agreed for the time being not to tell Danae about their bitter fight or Vegeta's drinking. Now, almost two weeks later, the prince sat alone in his mother's rose garden. He considered it sacred space since she banned anyone from arguing or conducting business there. He wiped his nose and coughed – having caught Bulma's "sniffles" - and tried to keep his mind off vodka. Nappa privately arranged treatment for his drinking, which Vegeta agreed to without further protest. He had to rise above the emotional triggers that caused him to lose himself in booze. Despite that, being home and hearing others' enthusiasm about the U.N. speech revived his sense of purpose. He pondered Bulma's words: "Return to Hegemone. That is where you should be right now. I am not going anywhere."

She was mostly correct, but what about the last part? Though he left their "arrangement," she had become a new friend. How many true friends had he made in recent memory? Zero. Bulma tried to understand him, and now he desired sharing more about himself than just sex – although he wouldn't reject continuing _that part_. He closely observed her other relationships as well. People fell all over themselves offering kindnesses to her. In particular, her intimacy with Zeus made him jealous. Their friendship seemed so perfect, much like the roses surrounding him. Not being able to attend the White House dinner wasn't helping his mood either.

"You will probably look stunning tonight, tiger lily." He gazed at the only personal photo he had of her, on his phone.

"Who are you talking to, brother? You look sad. I heard you coughing. Are you sick again?"

Vegeta looked up. "I'm thinking out loud, and I still have the same cold. This happens sometimes when people don't get proper rest, which I have not."

He chuckled to himself, relieved that his brother couldn't read his mind. _This is the best cold I've ever had in my life. If this is my gift from having mind-blowing sex, then hand me another box of tissues and some NyQuil._

"Are you angry with me?"

Vegeta moved aside for Tarble to sit next to him. "Of course not. I have many other people to be angry with who deserve it. I don't think you could do anything to make me angry. Why do you ask?"

"You don't talk much now."

Vegeta smirked. "I usually don't talk much."

"That's not true, Vegeta!" Tarble held his head down. "You always talk to me. Are you going away again?"

"Are you afraid I might not come back? Is that what these questions are about, Tarble?"

"I guess so."

"Look at me. I think of you often while I'm away, and I will do a better job of spending time with you when I'm here. If I don't keep my promise, say you're angry and that I must plant vegetables in your garden."

Vegeta felt like his toenails were being pulled with hot pliers after making that promise. Tarble appeared excited - and somewhat unconvinced.

"You really, really hate planting vegetables."

"That's right, brat." He nodded and scowled dramatically, making his brother laugh. "Anything else you want to talk about?"

"Nope," Tarble said, grinning. "Well, um, I heard mother say she hopes you will find a nice girl to marry."

" _Did she now_?" Vegeta leaned in. " _She said this to whom?_ "

His brother knew that look. He had said too much. "I hope the cold goes away. Bye!"

"Bye."

Vegeta sighed. Tarble would always be his little brother, and he cared deeply for him. As he aged, the king focused solely on young man's "mental defects." Vegeta, however, saw a kind soul, untainted by their cynicism, who never stopped being curious or truthful. As a lad, the elder prince beat the hell out of their cousin Raditz for cruelly calling Tarble "retarded." It never happened again. Danae once told Nappa that despite Vegeta's demanding ways, the general shouldn't underestimate their son's capacity for compassion. Tarble's disability had taught him much. Sometimes, Vegeta's moodiness had been unfairly dismissed as bratty when, rather, he just didn't suffer fools - and insincerity pissed him off. He never cared to correct their judgments about him when they were wrong – a mental defense mechanism he carried into adulthood. Everyone was fair game. For him, there was no better teacher about human nature than seeing how poorly others treated people like his beloved brother.

* * *

 **12:15 p.m. – "Cursed Shall You Be"**

"Danae."

"To what do I owe the, um, pleasure of this visit, nephew?"

"To see your eldest, of course." Raditz bowed, placing his hand over his heart. "I am starting to believe that he is avoiding me."

"He's only been back for two weeks, Raditz."

He held out his arm. "Yes, and I heard he's seen everyone but me. Would you let me escort you? Uncle Vegeta says you haven't been feeling well lately. How are you?"

The queen gritted her teeth. For all of the king's paranoia, she wished he would have been more cautious discussing their personal business with others. Raditz, unfortunately, had become an "other" worthy of her suspicion. His contempt for her sons, fed by envy, boiled underneath his handsome smile and smooth mannerisms. The prince was masterful at irritating his cousin, too, which didn't help.

"Thank you for your concern, nephew, but I will walk on my own for now. Exercise is good for me. Is there anything I can help you with instead?"

"Vegeta represented our country well at the U.N."

Danae raised her eyebrow. "And?"

"My queen, Hegemone still cannot become a mere chess piece for outsiders – or for these foolish radicals among our citizenry. Our kingdom is walking a fine line. I have a say in these changes you're hoping for, and I am being denied my rightful place to express it as a member of this family."

"Raditz, _no one_ has denied you _a voice_." Frustrated, Danae stopped walking. "You have been in my husband's and the governors' ears to the point of badgering them. What's more important? Getting your way or ensuring a peaceful political transition that helps everyone?"

He grunted. "Peace is highly overrated. We are Saiyans, remember?"

Danae pounded her cane on the floor angrily. "Spoken like one who has never fought in wars or heard gunfire outside of the front door! Your elders have, young man. _Let me assure you, it's_ _highly overrated_."

Raditz looked up and chuckled. "Absolutely amazing. No matter what the prince of all brats does, you will always bend over backward to support him. A mother's love is a powerful, mind-altering drug."

Danae refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing more of her fury. In her younger days, she probably would have sliced him apart with her tongue. Still, she wasn't one to trifle with. "Oh, now I see. So I guess, then, that you were lying with the earlier compliment about my son."

"Actually, I wasn't. You should be proud of 'Mister Hope for a Better Future,' at least for now. I'm just wondering how long it will take before he loses his spirit. Don't tell me you haven't thought about this. Others choose to look away. I won't."

"Now you're crossing a red line with me, _boy_." She patted his shoulder and smiled. Her eyes were ice cold, though, as if she planned to carve out his heart and eat it raw. "Be very, very careful, darling."

He removed her hand and kissed it. "That's what I've always liked about you. Softness on the outside with an assassin's spirit inside. I see it in your eyes. My god, you would have been a wonderful spy for the royal intelligence service! A lovely one too!"

"Who says that I wasn't one? I'm tired of this rubbish. You are disrespecting yourself and me. I'm sure my son _will find you_ when he's ready."

"You know I'm right about him, Danae. Vegeta is an angry, unhappy person. You should take some responsibility for allowing him to become that way, although the king's behavior is partially to blame for turning him into a mama's boy."

She slapped him. "Enough! _Maybe you should look in the mirror, nephew_. Your senseless jealousy has blackened your heart. You could have been as close as brothers. I would have liked seeing that. I have treated you kindly since you were children – and now you're in my home insulting me? _How dare you._ I always chastised Vegeta when he was wrong, unlike your parents did with you. Have you stopped loving me too?"

For a moment Raditz almost appeared ashamed. Danae hoped he was. _Maybe he heard me. I can't have him and Vegeta going at each other's throats. I just don't have the strength to stop them anymore._

He cleared his throat and bowed. "I am…fond of you, Danae, but at my age I have higher bar for love. Loyalty is just as important, if not more, and I have made that abundantly clear."

"You have, cousin, just like a scratched record," Vegeta shouted from the corridor. "You wanted to see me, yes? Also, lunch is ready, mother. Use the elevator - and your wheelchair."

She frowned. "I don't need it."

"You should listen to your son, Danae. _He knows what is best._ "

Vegeta moved between them, placing his hand on her cheek. "It's okay. The duke over here is owed a visit with me. We'll be in the library for bit."

Raditz bowed again as the queen left. "How gracious of you, sire. I won't take much of your time. You don't appear to be feeling well today. You look somewhat pale."

Feeling a headache approaching, Vegeta rubbed his temples. "I have a cold. Now tell me you want. You aren't here for tea and cookies."

"Next steps," Raditz replied, handing him a magazine. "You look perfectly regal in this picture after the U.N. speech. I must say, you did well. However, I'm not content on waiting for the U.S. or anyone else's help to solve our problems."

"And I am _not content_ with waging rash, poorly executed fights both within and outside of our country!" Vegeta retorted. "We cannot have needless bloodshed. We must lead by example."

" _Ha!"_ Raditz walked around him, squinting. "Well, well, well. I am impressed with this selfless leader act. _You have some nerve_. The erstwhile, spendthrift playboy returns home to martyr himself for the greater good, along with our unfortunate family. Vegeta, you're just as selfish, hypocritical, dismissive, and nasty as you've always been. I am truly amazed by those who see you of all people as their saving grace."

"You mean jealous, Raditz? And, to the contrary, whatever support I have isn't based in cultish idol worship. I don't want or need that. My personality is what it has always been. I am gruff and can be harsh. I test others' patience routinely and, yes, I have my bratty ways – _but I am no hypocrite_. The difference between us, cousin, is my sincerity about our cause. Our people believe it, because it's real." Given his mood and tiredness, the prince had been more gracious than the other man realized. He was also observing him closely. If Raditz graduated to full-time enemy, a fail-safe plan would be needed stop him.

Raditz' lip curled into a sneer. "I wonder what _people_ would think if they knew the truth about your so-called 'exhaustion' in the hospital. The smart ones know what that euphemism means. I figured out quickly. What's your addiction of choice: cocaine, alcohol, or pills? I'm fond of Quaaludes myself. You should try them sometime. Maybe I'm being presumptuous. Did you have an old-fashioned depressive breakdown instead? Come on, mate, you can tell me. We've been through a lot together."

"We have," Vegeta replied flatly, "but I won't allow your anger to dine on my flesh, now that it's almost through eating yours. I have enough of my own. Your horrible, disgusting father abused us both as boys until _someone_ murdered him. _I figured that one out_ , although for the life of me I wish _I knew_ who did it. Consider us fortunate not to have killed ourselves by now – or each other. This conversation is through. I'll see you at the governors' assembly."

Raditz' face turned purple from rage. "Unbelievable! Danae's health is fading, and the king probably won't be long after that! Be your own man and walk in your own footsteps for once before she's no longer with us. If you don't want to be king, stop being a little bitch and hand the privilege to someone does. You can't be _exhausted_ whenever it suits you. Hell, you can't even fight a cold - or are you craving another high?"

"Heh." The prince closed the library's door quietly and turned around. "You have _always_ been a shit-talker. The problem is you're terrible at follow-through."

He kicked Raditz' legs from underneath him, flipped him around, and rammed his face on a table. A lamp and papers flew in opposite directions. The prince shook his head and smiled at the spectacle, but he felt no joy. He had been pushed to his limit. After pulling Raditz up by his hair, Vegeta's right arm smoothly wrapped around his cousin's neck, palms clutched together, until his left hand pressed the man's face against the back wall.

" _Shall we continue, dear cousin of mine?_ I get to talk for as long as I want while you choke! Do you know the neck has seven vertebrae? _Oops,_ _I'm sorry! I guess you can't speak_! Right now I'm deciding which bone to crush _slowly_ – so listen well, you _miserable_ , _spiteful_ wretch. First, don't _ever_ address mother by her first name again. That privilege is over. Second, if you as much as breathe another negative word about the king's and queen's health to anyone, I will gladly have my head and balls chopped off in public as punishment for murdering you. Third, whatever you're planning to spectacularly derail our political efforts, stop it. "

"Vegeta! Let him go!"

"Stay out of this, Nappa!"

Lowering his voice, the general walked behind them. "Let him go, sire. This can't continue. Let him go."

Vegeta looked up wearily at his father and ripped the royal crest from Raditz' shirt.

"This isn't about you, _cousin_ , and if you care about our country the way say you do, then I suggest that you think _harder_. Hatred for me is blinding your judgment – and why are you surprised that we're fighting, Nappa? We've done this for years. I may never be a kind-hearted innocent like Abel from the Bible, but this self-righteous bastard would make a great substitute for his brother Cain."

Raditz fell on his knees, panting, after Vegeta released him. "I… am…am fine, general. He's right. We were long overdue for an argument, and I got one. We both know where we stand now."

"Indeed." Vegeta threw the fabric on the floor and walked out.

* * *

 **3:15 p.m. – "This Will Pass"**

Vegeta entered the sitting room as if the fight had never happened, and he didn't have a scratch on him. He knew Danae had sent Nappa to check on them earlier and would probably tell her later about the outcome.

"You look far too calm," she said, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "What did you do to Raditz?"

He coughed and wiped his eyes. "How was lunch, mother? I may have soup while you're having tea. I need something to rid me of this cold. I've had it forever."

"I'm worried about you, darling. You already spent a week in hospital from running yourself ragged. You must rest. _You must._ Others can take your place as needed for two weeks to handle negotiations between the governors and the political parties. You can afford to keep a lower profile to boost your image. You won't look like you're being heavy-handed with everyone. That's good."

"I know, and I only have myself to blame for my physical condition. My other concern is gathering more data about the range of the Tuffles' spying and disinformation campaign. We must settle that as well. I will…I will… speak with…"

Vegeta touched his head and leaned on the wall.

"Son?"

"It's okay. I'm just a bit dizzy. I'll be fine."

"Turles!"

A tall, long-haired teenager wearing ripped jeans and a food-stained T-shirt ran in. "Aunt Danae? What's wrong?"

"Get my son to his room. He's unwell."

"Yes, ma'am."

Vegeta wagged his finger. "Boy, if you touch me, you will eat tofu burgers in my home _for rest of your life_. I know you're allergic to soybeans. Wait - did you just eat at a revolting fast-food restaurant? For god's sake, _why_ aren't you dressed appropriately? You have an allowance to take care of that."

"Stop this right now! That does it for me. Be silent and do as I said earlier, son." As concerned as Danae was, Vegeta's wisecracks were hilarious. He would be fine, she thought.

"Mother, I just need to steady myself." He shook his head to clear his vision. "This will pass."

"Let's go," Turles said. "Give me the honor of helping you, cousin. Please. Maybe you should see a doctor."

"No doctors! I have had enough of them. I'm overly tired, like the queen says. You can follow me to my room to lessen her concern – and don't look so damned happy about it. We are not at my crowning."

Turles laughed. "Wow, man! What are you like when you have the flu?"

Secretly, Vegeta wasn't opposed to having the kid there. It stopped him from finding another drink.


	9. Then, the Building Shook

**Summary: A wintertime reunion of challenges.**

* * *

 **January 22, Monday**

 **Brooklyn: 10:21 p.m. EST**  
 **Cerinthe: 4:21 a.m. CET**

 **"Ambushed"**

Bulma removed her glasses as she stared at the video screen. Vegeta had not called since leaving New York months before, and her heart skipped a beat from seeing him. His hand was propped over his chin, as if he had been thinking carefully about what to say.

"Pack enough clothing for a week. A car will arrive in two hours to take you to a private airstrip."

Bulma cheeks felt hot. Then, her body shook. "No."

Vegeta exhaled. He had been at hospital a few hours already. "There is no time for that. Just…"

" _Don't tell me what to do_." She her hand up. "Just…don't. _Tell me_ what happened to him."

"Zeus was shot in the back in the southeastern end of the country. Another American and a British journalist were hurt as well. They were ambushed. Emergency workers got them all out, but he took the worst hit. I… am sorry. Does he have close family?"

Bulma sniffed and wiped her face. "Just me now. He is family to me. Just me. His relatives rejected him because he's gay."

"Then he won't be alone. I had him brought to the hospital near my home once I found out. He is receiving good care."

Bulma picked up a framed picture from the dresser. Holding her in his arms, Zeus resembled a happy fisherman admiring his finest ocean catch. They were laughing. They always had something to laugh about.

"Did you see him?"

"Yes."

His thoughtful silence rang in her ears. " _I told him_ not to return." She covered her face. "I told him!"

" _Listen to me right now_ , _Bulma!_ Zeus may not live through this, but he will wait… for you. Do not listen to the news for a while, and try to sleep on the flight. I have to go. I'll meet you on the runway when the plane lands."

Vegeta ended the call abruptly not because of personal discomfort. He would have gladly held Bulma if they were together, but he didn't want her completely consumed by grief before traveling. Prolonging conversation would have enabled it. He hoped her friend would live, but he didn't expect it. After arriving at hospital, Zeus asked him to take care of her, which unsettled him. They hadn't known each other a full year. He thought the man disliked him – or, at best, merely tolerated him - and he felt unworthy of the heartfelt request. He promised nothing, instead telling Zeus that Bulma would arrive soon. He could not possibly lie to a decent, honorable man who could be dead within days – or hours.

Events leading up to the attack had been suspicious. More foreign journalists had been traveling within Hegemone to watch how political changes there would unfold. While the prince generally supported a free press and would never advocate harming or jailing reporters for doing their jobs, he disliked speculative stories implying that the worst could still happen. He accepted _the facts_ and _informed opinions_ , no matter how unpleasant, but not careless guesswork. Tales of corruption and dueling feuds within the government had gained more attention publicly. Some stories helped uncover unfavorable situations that worked in his favor. Others, not so much. No one likes being investigated, no matter how "wholesome" one is – and he certainly wasn't.

He knew all along that Zeus was there, having been informed about it, and he had taken keen interest in why. The two reporters the photographer traveled with were considered the best in their profession, too. Vegeta suspected that they stumbled onto information someone didn't want them to know. Of course they did. Something Bulma said to him stood out particularly: She told Zeus not to return. What did she know, and how would he ask? Regardless, he would ask, all feelings aside, and no doubt she would be angry – and possibly enraged. More, he had Zeus and the other two watched, but obviously that hadn't turned out well. Was it the right thing to do? For him, the reality was cold and hard, and he would accept criticism about his actions without regrets or argument. Bulma could either accept it or not.

* * *

 **Cerinthe: 5:30 p.m., Jan. 23, Tuesday**

 **"No Delusions"**

Vegeta raised his chin as Bulma descended the plane's stairs. His all-black attire was modest and serious, right down to his winter boots. He looked as handsome as ever, but she was slightly taken aback by his austere appearance. She followed the news closely and had been concerned, but seeing him confirmed how hard these last several months had been. She also concluded that the prince had worked hard to stay sober, recalling how careful Zeus was after quitting heroin. It was hell – until it wasn't. In Vegeta's case, overseeing the full-scale overhaul of an entire government under that pressure was praiseworthy. He had been teetering on the edge of full-blown alcoholism. The reality had finally settled in, Bulma thought. He wasn't all the way there, but he had been close enough.

He handed her a larger shawl to block the bitterly cold wind as they approached the limousine. He stopped looking at her directly. She was dressed in an off-white coat and fur hat, and all he could think about was removing them to continue from where they left in November.

"Are you warm enough? It has been much colder than normal."

Bulma's head shifted to regain his eye contact. "I am. How are you?"

Uncomfortable, he frowned and turned away again. "Do I… look that terrible to you?"

"No," she said, squeezing his arm. "I would tell you. I expected you to be tired, although your goatee has filled out nicely."

Vegeta chest heaved. "Bulma, I..." He closed his eyes. "I..."

"Shhh. You don't have to say it. I missed you too. I am proud of you, my friend."

"There is nothing to be proud of yet." Their hands joined as they kissed gently and quickly. Neither could hold back anymore. Bulma lay her head on his shoulder while he held her.

"Your hair is longer."

"I've been too lazy to cut it." She paused, recalling what Zeus said about his first trip there. "You know, Vegeta, this might look bad for you - flying me here while others are hurt too."

He stared out window.

"Vegeta?"

"Honestly, I prefer that you focus on your friend. Olivier is paying your expenses, not I. If Zeus's condition improves, then we can move him to a hospital either in London or the U.S. for rehabilitation."

"You asked my cousin for help?"

"He says he owes you a favor."

"You are lying."

"Does it matter? It is taken care of."

Not appreciating his brush-off, Bulma looked up. " _It does_ _to me_. Do not lie."

"Fine." He sighed with annoyance but didn't want to irritate her further – or arouse more suspicion. "That was a stupid lie. However, I am not saying more. Olivier handled it. You are welcome to stay at our estate. Our family hasn't lived in the royal palace for years. That place resembles a Byzantine church, with its geometric mosaics and marble columns. For someone as unholy as I am, it is rather frightening."

Bulma laughed softly. "I have missed your dry humor."

"I know. I may be an ass, but, as you've said, I am a smart one."

"What about Nappa?"

" _Hn_." Definitely not a question he wanted. "We agreed not to push each other too far. I still make _some_ decisions around here. We are close to hospital now. Staff is expecting us."

"How… did Zeus look?"

Vegeta shook his head. "I know how much you love him." He hated when people talked when silence was more appropriate, so he stopped. One can only do so much to comfort the distraught. He expected her to reject staying at the mansion, which he wouldn't oppose.

He accepted that he was falling in love. He also realized that, as they became closer, they were destined for a world of pain. Their lessons had changed, and it was obvious that Bulma was on the edge of breaking her rules. Nappa was correct about them, the prince now believed, and, after their separation, he finally reconsidered everything without delusions. He also didn't want Bulma worried his drinking. That would be humiliating. _Not drinking_ had stripped his emotions naked, and she had already seen more vulnerability from their first encounter, in June, than any other woman. Witnessing the rest would likely drive her away. Leaders, whether in front or behind the scenes, had to be practical. She may have memorized "The Art of War" by chapter and verse, but living it was radically different.

For now, though, his friend and lover was there. They held hands walking to Zeus's room.

"Do you want me inside with you?"

Bulma faced him. "No."

"Would you prefer staying here overnight?"

"Yes."

Vegeta nodded. "Dinner and breakfast will be delivered. I will step back now. My attendant here can provide anything else you need."

Bulma smiled and ruffled Zeus's hair. His face and body were swollen, and he was on a respirator. "Hello, gorgeous. I'm here. Can you be less dramatic sometimes? I know you must be scared. I am too, but I guess we now have friends in really high places. I brought you something."

The "Kung Fu Panda" theme song played on her phone. They would waltz to the playful melody together like 18th Century nobility, usually after wine-fueled dinners. "We will dance together again. You hear me, Mr. Brickey? Besides my father, you have been my best partner."

Tears welled in Zeus's eyes. He had loved and spoiled her like a doting brother, but he had faith that his "sweetie" would be fine eventually. Bulma stood quietly in the background while the medical team tried to save him the next morning. After he died, she grasped his hand to recite an elegy. "You always liked Herman Melville's poetry. I never did, but here goes. Give my father hug for me, too, Zeus. Love you always."

 _To have known him, to have loved him_

 _After loneness long;_

 _And then to be estranged in life,_

 _And neither in the wrong;_

 _And now for death to set his seal—_

 _Ease me, a little ease, my song!_

 _By wintry hills his hermit-mound_

 _The sheeted snow-drifts drape,_

 _And houseless there the snow-bird flits_

 _Beneath the fir-trees' crape:_

 _Glazed now with ice the cloistral vine_

 _That hid the shyest grape._

* * *

 **4:30 p.m., Jan. 24, Wednesday**

 **"Valuable Lessons"**

Bulma tossed fitfully in her sleep until Vegeta lay down next to her. She didn't know he was in her hotel room, and he didn't touch her. He arrived after confirming that Zeus's body would be handled properly for burial or cremation later.

"Bulma, wake up. You haven't eaten since arriving yesterday. There is food here."

She curled into a semi-fetal position, waving him off. "No, no. I'm fine."

"I wouldn't be here if you were fine," he said gently. "Get up now – for me."

"Leave me alone! I almost prefer you acting like a jerk than doing this."

"Hmm." He leaned back. "If that is what you want, I am _happy_ to oblige. Your closest friend died doing the job that pleased him, despite the terrible circumstances. Grieve, but don't expect me or others to pity you when you abuse yourself. You are just as susceptible as anyone of falling into a sink hole too."

Bulma's fake smile vacillated between surprise and enraged scorn. "Did I just hear what I thought I heard? _You're lecturing me about abusing myself?!_ You almost drank yourself to death, arriving at my home with nowhere else to go! _What arrogance_. Did you bring me here to make you feel better about yourself? You don't have the privilege of making me do _anything_ that I don't want outside of my bedroom. I'll be damned if this becomes the norm."

"Trust me, it won't," he replied coldly, "and if you believe that _pathetic_ tantrum would hurt my _delicate_ feelings, think again. You are terrible at it, and I will always be better than you – and now that I'm sober, I am much more severe." His face softened as her azure eyes fell. "I choose not to eviscerate your feelings because you deserve so, so much better than that, tiger lily."

"Just leave, Vegeta."

He bowed. "As you wish. Your food cart will stay warm for hours. I am ordering hotel staff to leave it. However, there is an expensive restaurant near the hotel's lobby if your cuisine here doesn't suit you."

Bulma looked down and sighed. "I'm sorry. Please come back." Vegeta had been brutally honest, no doubt, but her rejection still stung him.

"Let's say that we have a tie," he said, approaching the door. "You started. I finished. It is better if I leave. I am… sorry for your loss. Your friend's memory will bring comfort in time."

"Look, I will eat." She waved a baked chicken leg in the air. "See! Would that atone for my rudeness?"

Vegeta looked horrified. "Perhaps if you had better table manners! You are wagging carefully prepared food at me. I am not a starving dog."

"Is this better?" Bulma took a giant bite and chewed with her mouth open. "How can you be offended? I have chained you to walls and done all kinds of things to you – and you howled like a starving wolf. Now you're squeamish over roasted chicken?"

He snatched the bone away, hoping that no grease had stained the rug. "Would you stop this foolishness?! You're making me gag."

Laughing, she gulped a glass of lemonade and stood. "What are you going to do about it?"

"I know what you're doing. Don't _even_ think about it." He pointed at the food. "Eat, but I can't watch anymore."

She licked her fingers. "You can eat other things."

"No way." The prince's cheeks reddened as she thrust her hand into his pants, grabbing his dick. He stared straight ahead, biting his lips.

"You're not moving fast enough, your highness. What happened to your impressive karate reflexes?"

His eyelids dropped. Now he was on the hunt. " _You just can't leave well enough alone, can you?"_ He grabbed her, ripping her blouse to pieces. She tried to slap him, but his hand shot up as fast as lightening, clutching her wrist. His taunting laughter echoed from ceiling. "Is that _good enough_ for you? As I said before, you are outclassed."

"I want you."

"Go ahead and gnash those pretty teeth," he said, shaking her. "What will you do for me? Mewl like an infant? I will break _every single piece_ of furniture in this room driving you. I want you hallucinating over me – and you will. Are you ready again?"

He threw her over his shoulder and marched across the room.

"Damn it! Put me down!"

"Nope." He smacked her ass. "Did you truly understand what _you_ were looking for with me?"

Bulma stopped moving. "Of course I did, from the first time I kissed you," she said softly. "You valued my lessons as much as I valued yours. We challenged each other, and you opened yourself to me. I wanted to know you. Even now, I don't expect more than that. It's okay if you don't either. We may have feelings for each other, but I understand…"

"That's enough." He released her and covered her lips. "I don't need you reading my mind."

She nipped at his fingers. "Okay, well, I would appreciate it if you would stop destroying my nicest clothes, jackass. That was a lovely piece of linen you shredded."

"You can always make more, no?" He waved the tattered blouse over his head. "Didn't you say once that you don't care about pretention? How many more lies have you told yourself…and me?"

"I changed my mind about you. Get out of my room."

"Your nipples are hard. I like that. I want to frolic with them." No one else would likely believe he had this much humor in him - and Bulma always giggled at his playfulness, which he loved. He would make this a good denouement. He paced around, inhaling her scent.

"What nonsense is this, Vegeta?"

He held up his finger. "Quiet. I'm sketching."

"You've _got_ to be kidding." Bulma threw her hands up. "Now you're mocking me?" She gasped as he grabbed her and slammed her against his body, shoving her onto her knees. She collapsed like rag doll.

" _Hn._ That's more like it." Bulma flinched as he covered her mouth. "How long has this smart tongue of yours created trouble?"

Her eyes widened as Vegeta pulled her hair backward. She pursed her lips in rebellion, knowing what came next. That didn't stop him from tying the remainder of her blouse over her mouth.

" _Oh, my_. I apologize for being impolite, madame. It's much more comfortable to bite down on the fabric. _Now open your mouth and do it correctly_." His forefinger glided around the opening between buttocks, pushing flesh aside as he prepared for entry.

"Get my bag first," she mumbled. "I want lube!"

He quickly untied her. "You _brought_ lube with you? What the hell?"

"I always carry some, no matter where I go. Zeus taught me this. You never know when you'll need it."

Vegeta's head fell onto her shoulders as they laughed together. "You two had a lot of fun, didn't you?"

Still chuckling, Bulma wiped her eyes. "We did. We certainly did – and I can't believe you planned to go anal on me like that without lube! Don't treat my beautiful ass like a lion's savannah. Apologize!"

He moved his hands underneath her back, turning on his side. "Let's do this instead. Put your legs around my hips." From there he gently penetrated her pussy. His thrusts were deep and intended to continue for as long as _she_ wanted. They kissed passionately until her head shifted to the right. Her chest pumped as he increased speed. She panted heavily as he stroked her clit, guiding her to climax.

He cuddled next to her ear. "Have I pleased you, my mistress?"

She smiled. "Don't stop yet." For the first time in recent memory, she felt genuinely appreciated by a partner.

Then, the building shook. Smoke billowed from below. Glass shattered outside.

Gunshots flew.

Vegeta quickly grabbed a Glock pistol from underneath the bed – one of two in the room - while Bulma gathered their clothing.

"Stay down!"


	10. We Were Fortunate

**Summary: Bulma is further introduced to the complexities of Vegeta's home life after their brush with danger. Separately, the prince must dodge more than one temptation.**

* * *

 **7:15 p.m.**

Vegeta held his gun close with Bulma crawling closely behind. The hotel penthouse was far enough out of reach to sustain damage from the explosion that rocked the entire neighborhood below. Gunshots had been fired outside, which the prince hoped were from police only.

Bodyguards, a man and woman, charged into the room to rush them out. They picked them up and dragged them away, covering them with sheets.

"Don't worry," the woman said. "This isn't the first time we've seen him desnudo."

"Um, I'm not really concerned about his appearance considering that body parts aren't strewn everywhere," Bulma said. "You get a pass. Thank you so much for being here."

"Sire, are you..."

Vegeta, eyes blazing with deadly fury, handed over his gun to the other guard. " _Wrong question_. No, I'm not fine! What the hell happened out there?!"

"Two armed men detonated what appears to be a C-4 explosive across the street," the man said. "The building has sustained significant damage. The shots you heard came from our sharpshooters and the police. Both assailants are dead now."

"Oh what a _relief,"_ Vegeta said irritably. "I suppose I should be jubilant about these idiots missing their sure-shot to kill us accidentally?"

Unfazed by the prince's sarcasm, the guard checked the guns' bullet clips. "We don't think they knew you were here since there is no official visible motorcade indicating your presence at this hotel, sir. You may not have been the target at all."

Vegeta glanced at the bedroom door. This was too close. Maybe it was a deliberate warning, but for whom? There were competing groups. He and other government officials had at least six more months of negotiations before setting a final date for a countrywide vote on Hegemone's constitution and delivering more policy changes. The citizens need stability.  
 **  
**"Fine, Colla, I will accept that ineffective response for now, but state security investigators must do more than _think_! We cannot have more attacks in our capitol city. It is bad enough for these incidents to happen elsewhere. I want the heads of whoever did this posthaste!"

Colla nodded, looking past him. "Uh, sire. It might be better to talk without the presence of the lady."

Bulma leaned on wall with the sheet under her chin. She looked away from Vegeta as the female guard escorted her to change clothes. Vegeta pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed as Colla handed over his shirt and pants. He had almost forgotten. This would be one hell of a conversation later.

Bulma's calmness before re-entering room surprised the other guard, Califula. Vegeta approached when she made eye contact afterward. "You can go in there. Ms. Brief is quiet, but she doesn't appear to be in shock."

"Good." The prince still wondered, though, because now Bulma had endured a second trauma. "Take her to the mansion when I leave. Have the attendants prepare a bedroom on the east wing. See to it that the queen's personal assistant greets her promptly and provides _whatever_ she wants."

"Yes, sire."

Vegeta observed Bulma briefly before bending on his knees in front. She was seated on the bed, flanked by her travel bags. Her hands and arms were folded protectively across her hips.

"Care to talk?"

She shook her head. "Not as much right now."

"Understood," he said, taking her hand. "Califula will escort you to the mansion."

"You… put a gun put in this room?"

"I had two."

Bulma shut her eyes. "Christ, Vegeta."

"Can you just trust me for now?"

"You're walking on thin ice with that, buddy," she said, moving his hand. "I know the political situation here has been tense, but this? Why didn't you tell me?"

Vegeta felt defensive but kept a straight face. "Bulma, I am rarely without a gun now despite having guards. Nevertheless, I must meet with my officials about what happened. Several people were hurt."

"Okay."

He kissed her forehead as they stood. "We will… talk more. I promise. I wanted you to focus less on my troubles after we spoke earlier, considering what happened with Zeus."

"Bad move, and that's bullshit," Bulma replied. "I can walk and chew gum at the same time. For better or worse, we knew we would eventually sleep together from the minute l left the plane. You thought ahead - and my thoughts belong to me, not you. I will not repeat myself about that. Now go handle business. I understand."

Vegeta looked into her eyes again, nodded, and left. She wasn't terrified. Many would've been, but she was "from the city." New Yorkers weren't delicate flowers for well-known reasons. Watching the prince leave after what happened was surreal, though.

"Ms. Brief, I am sorry," Califula said as they exited from the rear of the hotel. "What happened today is not representative of who we are as a country."

"Thank you," Bulma said uneasily. She recalled numerous times politicians said "we are better than this" when bad things happened. The remaining question: "Better than what?" What choices would the royal family and others make to uphold that ideal? Where would they compromise? Zeus had gotten himself into trouble, and she wanted to know more, but it was time to leave Hegemone.

* * *

Cell phone in hand, Vegeta puffed on his cigar. "I am well, mother. We are arriving at the government headquarters shortly."

" _You are_ _alive_ ," Danae said. Her voice was clipped. "That does not mean you are well."

"Where is the king? He may need to make a statement to the regional ministers as well."

Vegeta's cool demeanor didn't deceive his mother. Some part of her son felt disappointed that her husband hadn't contacted him, even if Vegeta didn't fully realize it. Nappa had, of course. "The king knows. We were briefed by security. They say you weren't the target. Do you believe that?"

"If I were the target, then obviously someone gave the perpetrators terrible intelligence about my location."

Frustrated with her son's defensive flippancy, Danae activated a switch at her desk. " _Turn on your video screen right now, Prince Vegeta, and do not leave that car until I finish speaking_ \- and extinguish the cigar that I know you are smoking. You _will_ show me the respect that I am due."

Vegeta straightened himself in the seat. "Yes, my queen. I…apologize."

Danae stood before the video screen. She was tired, but the point had to be made. "I suggest that you be more careful with your…dalliances. What is this woman to you?"

"It is not what you think."

"Oh, no? I have held my tongue long enough. What are you envisioning with this divorcee American fashion designer, some kind of British fairy tale? This is not 1936. You are not Prince Edward and she isn't Wallis Simpson and you _will not_ abdicate the throne. Perhaps you might be taking advantage of Ms. Brief's grief with whatever you're doing together. Have you considered that?"

Attempting to conceal his growing anger, Vegeta looked down. " _Stop it, mother_. You have gone too far with me. Nappa and I have been through this. My childhood ended decades ago the last time I checked."

"And Ms. Brief is staying in my home – the royal mansion. I agreed only because of these terrible events today. That said, you have never brought any woman here formally. If you have intentions, then be clear, both for your sake and hers. You are facing down responsibilities that require focus and _the right kind of support_ from those around you."

"I do not understand the problem," Vegeta said, interlacing his fingers. Because Danae was questioning without attempting to listen, he would simply observe. "Tarble said you wanted me to marry a nice girl."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Vegeta! Don't toy with me. You didn't have to bring her to Hegemone. There's been enough gossip about you both in the U.S., as if you think I wouldn't find out. Mr. Brickey's affairs would've been handled properly regardless, just like our diplomats did with his companions. What do you think will happen when this news really gets out? You will be accused of playing favorites."

"Ms. Brief has been kind to me, mother. I am merely returning the kindness. You usually give me grief for being ill-tempered. I don't expect you to greet her if you aren't up for it today."

Danae waved him off. "Nonsense," she said, pausing to catch her breath. "Nonsense. We have spoken long enough. Go inside."

"As you wish." Vegeta hesitated before leaving the car. Danae sensed his concern. Her health right then mattered less, she felt.

"Now is not the time, son." She shut off the screen and sat down.

"Queen Danae, may I enter?"

She sighed. "Come, Iris."

"Ms. Brief has arrived."

"Yes, I figured that. I want her settled within an hour and a half. I am not feeling well and need time to recover. This has been a difficult day for us all."

Both women turned abruptly as a guard rushed into the room to activate a side door. "Let's go. There is no direct threat to the mansion, but…"

"Stop." Danae raised her cane. The guard appeared composed, indicating that the king and her sons probably weren't in immediate danger either. "Young man, if there is no urgent threat _to me_ , then I am not moving. Just say what happened."

"Another bomb went off, ma'am."

Danae's eyes met his. "But… Vegeta and I just finished talking."

"It happened on the other side of the city," the guard said, checking his phone. "Unfortunately, this definitely could be the work of sophisticated terrorists. These events often come in twos or threes. I learned this during military training."

"Anyone who manages to bomb and kill people, regardless of the method, is sophisticated according to my definition," Danae said.

Frowning, the guard rubbed the back of his neck. "Ma'am, I'm sorry to say this, but your nephew Raditz may have been one of those hurt at the second site. That's the report my superiors are sending now."

Danae paused, resting her hands on top of her cane. "Let me know when you can confirm." The guard looked curiously at her, thinking that she would be more upset. Then he remembered being told of the woman's toughness when faced with difficult situations. She could be a different person.

"You should rest now," Iris said. "You will be in better shape to discuss these problems with the rest of the family afterward, don't you think?"

Danae exhaled, deciding to disregard the suggestion. "Young man, does our guest know?"

"We had another guard posted protectively at Ms. Brief's location, yes."

"Bring her here, and make it fast. She might be unnerved. I don't care which one of you does it. Also, have someone prepare a tray of pastries and tea."

She thought briefly about Raditz as her cat crawled into her lap. She probably could have shown more emotion. Oh well.

"Maybe we were fortunate today. We'll see."

* * *

Nappa paced the floor in the executive meeting room while senior military and internal security officials, all seated, silently watched him. "Where are your minds, people?"

Vegeta almost seemed too calm after entering the room. "Quiet. This is my job now, until the king arrives."

"Yes, sir." Nappa bowed slightly as everyone stood. He walked in front of him, catching a quick glance. He did this habitually to see if Vegeta had been drinking, which the prince knew. One couldn't smell vodka on the drinker but the eyes told everything, even with a functional alcoholic.

"I am well, general," Vegeta said, pouring a glass of water. "I told you. No scratches." His daring, defiant smirk reassured Nappa that no alcohol had been consumed.

Another man leaned forward to shake hands. "And we're all glad to hear it, sir."

Vegeta didn't return the greeting. "Don't be an ass-kisser, Broly. You are interior minister. Why are we behind the curve here? You mean to tell me no one had any information about these threats?"

The man's face turned red. "That's unfair, sir! You know our intelligence resources are stretched. We're still reorganizing to work differently. You cannot expect miracles considering the changes you're trying to make to the way Hegemone is governed."

"Unfair?" Vegeta slammed his hands on the table. "Tell that to the families of those who died! Do you think I would've spent time pleading our case before the entire fucking world if not to receive help? You do whatever it takes to communicate better with our allies on intelligence - _or maybe Nappa should take your job and direct the_ _reorganization!_ "

"Son, why don't you have a seat?" King Vegeta entered slowly, looking more casually dressed than the prince in his beige wool sweater and black pants. "You can continue drawing blood later. We all know you like the taste of it, being a proud Saiyan. Give them something to look forward to."

Typical, Vegeta thought. The old man dithered like a deluded Roman emperor as they faced danger, and yet he was having a pissing contest. "You are right, father," he replied, flashing a smile through angry, bared teeth, " but you do a much better job than I could ever attempt."

Nappa gave both men a warning look. He wouldn't allow their personal hostility to beat down everyone when they needed support most. "Gentlemen, may I suggest that we give the group a break? I want to speak with you privately."

Vegeta shut the door and sat on the opposite end of the table. "What is it, Nappa? Broly deserved exactly what he got. He is too busy trying to cover his ass to be efficient. I could have been much harsher."

The king raised his eyebrow. "Perhaps you should rethink putting the fear of god in others and work on your own legion of faults, of which there are many. You have performed admirably, but…"

" _Tch._ Oh shut up and stop being a jealous fool," Vegeta said dismissively. "You know damn well this is not just about me."

The old man shrugged. "Nappa, perhaps he will listen to you, hmm? You are… closer to him now than I am."

 _I am fed up with you both, quite frankly,_ Nappa thought. "We received word before you both arrived about a second bombing at the old palace. Raditz had been with a group there, and he was injured."

"Is he near death?" Vegeta asked, removing the lint from his shirt. "Oh, come on. Why are you staring at me? I asked a question. This is a tough time. Let us not be overly sentimental. Who knows what else might happen?"

"He is alive," Nappa said. "Disappointed?"

"Okay, Nappa, so investigators will also focus on whether he was targeted as well."

Exasperated, the general rubbed his head. "Of course. What I worry about is whether Raditz or his supporters will say you were behind it."

"Have you lost your senses, man?!" The king shook his head furiously. "Those two have their differences, but…"

"He is right," Vegeta said, interrupting him. "You are not blind to your nephew's nastiness. You chose to be. Wait and see how long before the rumors begin. If that's the game now, _so be it_."

The king turned to Nappa as Vegeta left. "You have a job to do, general."

"And so do you, sir."

The king snorted. "I could have gotten rid of you long ago."

"But you didn't," Nappa said, bowing. "It's funny how Vegeta says the same thing. Now then, if you will excuse me, I have a job to do." He soon spotted the prince with a woman outside of the interior minister's office. Recognizing her, he stood back to watch secretly.

"If I may have a moment of your time," she said, flipping her long, dark hair. "We have not spoken directly in a while, Prince Vegeta."

"Maybe that's for a reason," Vegeta said, turning to leave. "Encourage Broly to work harder, because he apparently doesn't know how to manage you, Arestis. You seem to have plenty of free time." Feeling her hand on his back, he flinched. "Touch me like that in public again, _and you won't have a job_."

"Let's have a drink," Arestis replied, smiling seductively. "For me, please. This is a long day. I still keep vodka in my office for special guests. That's still your favorite, isn't it?"

* * *

"Your majesty."

"Come in, Ms. Brief. I apologize for not standing. I am not feeling my best. Have a seat, please."

The first thing Bulma noticed was the décor. The study was modern, fashionable. Contemporary art lined the walls. The floor rug pattern matched different furniture pieces. She also noticed Danae's cane. "Oh, ma'am I understand, especially with what happened today."

Danae handed her tea and a napkin. "Please accept my condolences over the loss of your friend. I want you to know that you are safe here. You seem to be holding up well despite your ordeal at the hotel."

"Thank you, and yes, I am comfortable. Everyone has been kind since I arrived."

"Obviously Vegeta thinks highly of you. Now tell me, how in the world did you achieve _that_? My son can be an, um, _acquired taste_."

Bulma almost dropped her cup. "Pardon, ma'am?"

She had felt less trapped at the hotel.


	11. But the World Was Imperfect

**Summary: Bulma and Danae begin their lesson. Vegeta is triggered.**

* * *

The queen had swiftly thrown down the gauntlet, challenging Bulma to a duel. Danae's hazel eyes pored over her guest's face like a doctor's stethoscope. While caught off guard, Bulma wasn't extremely surprised by the woman's bluntness. The behavior ran in the family apparently. Recalling Vegeta's comment about his mother's fighting skills, Bulma knew then that the two were close. It wasn't a huge leap to think that the king was probably more of an asshole. Vegeta often uttered annoyed grunts when Bulma asked about their father-son relationship, choosing instead to discuss his family's lineage and Hegemone's history.

Bulma placed her teacup on the tray. "I agree with you, ma'am," she said, nodding respectfully. "One knows quickly where Vegeta's thoughts rest. We share that personality trait."

Danae laughed softly. "Oh, my! What a careful, honest answer. If you and Vegeta share that characteristic, then you must be a spitfire. That's what you Americans say about strong-willed women, right?"

"Among other things," Bulma said. "I couldn't care less I care about that part."

"Indeed, like most accomplished, intelligent women. Vegeta has met _plenty_ of them."

Another pointed comment. This has to stop now, Bulma thought - royalty be damned. "Ma'am, with all due respect, may I ask where your questioning is headed? I feel like I have a bullseye on my forehead."

"That's because you do." Danae peered over the rim of her teacup. "My son is developing strong feelings for you. Even though we just met, and Vegeta and Nappa haven't said much, I trust my judgment. You haven't known each other for a full year, though. So tell me, do you feel the same about him?"

Bulma eyed her. The queen looked frailer in person compared with her appearance in news photographs. Her cheeks were hollowed and ankles were swollen, and her left hand was disfigured from arthritis. Her mind and demeanor, though, radiated immense strength. That made her strikingly attractive.

"Your son has become a friend. I suppose I'm more surprised about that outcome than him. Our first encounter, when I lived in California, was rather unpleasant."

Danae shook her head. He made an ass of himself, she thought. That didn't surprise her. "Okay then. I understand your hesitance to say more. I apologize if I offended you, although I have no regrets."

Bulma poured more tea for them both. "Consider me not shocked in the least, ma'am - and I'm not offended."

The queen responded with a warm smile. She liked that Bulma wasn't easily intimidated or self-conscious. For her part, Bulma imagined the prince's horrified embarrassment. Then again, this was Vegeta. He would likely make a game of it, wondering which woman would lose patience first. They would both want to strangle him by the end.

"My son struggles, but… he is… a good man." Danae sighed heavily. "Like any mother, I want the best for him. He struggles." Her voice carried a touch of sadness, which Bulma noticed.

"How are you feeling, ma'am? You're having a hard time catching your breath."

The queen reached for Bulma's arm. "Please excuse my coughing. I have a disease similar to lupus that affects the lungs - and causes other physical problems that highly annoy this old lady."

Overlooking their previous formality, Bulma quietly held Danae's hand several minutes before helping her stand. Doing it was instinctive for her. Being chronically sick could be a lonely experience, even with family around, and the queen was a proud woman. Bulma suspected that she didn't know about Vegeta's drinking, and that troubled her.

"It's okay, and I wouldn't call you old by a long stretch. Should we call in someone else to help?"

"No." Danae pointed at the door. "Just step down the hall and bring my electric wheelchair. I have another medicinal inhaler there, and I can ride next to you. I will be fine."

The queen could have easily summoned the chair by remote control, but Bulma's departure left her enough time to shed tears. She had felt particularly vulnerable before then, which didn't happen often, and Bulma showed thoughtful, loving compassion in return. It came so easily. Whatever concerns remained, Danae realized that the "divorcee American fashion designer" shouldn't disappear from her son's life completely. Vegeta needed another confidante who wanted nothing from him: no riches, no fame, and no egomaniacal designs for power. He needed someone who could offer friendship and strong, wise counsel, even from afar. She expected others would remain loyal to her son, both politically and personally, but this was something different.

She had clung to life long enough to see the prince through Hegemone's reformation. She had been the mastermind behind it for years, using sharp intellect and negotiation skills to encourage powerful individuals both inside and outside of the royal court to make changes, including her husband. Sometimes she dressed in disguise to meet with people in cities and villages, asking about their daily lives. Her diaries were filled with their stories. As she aged, and as more political unrest unfolded, her security detail advised her to stop altogether. Sometimes she wouldn't inform certain guards until after she left. She also warned King Vegeta and Nappa against punishing anyone over her choices. Only illness or death would stop her, she said.

"Do you have elderly people in your family, Ms. Brief?"

"No one in my immediate family now, and please call me Bulma. My father died of leukemia four years ago."

"If you held hands to comfort him, as you did with me, then he was truly a fortunate soul. Not everyone can."

"No, ma'am. I was the fortunate one."

Danae smiled. "I have a job for you. Are you still under commission to design Vegeta's clothing?"

"Yes, I am. Why?"

"Wonderful. I want you to design something for me under that agreement."

Bulma was bemused by the unexpected request. "I would be happy to - but, as a favor to me, would you clear this with him first? I can't see…"

"Nonsense," Danae interrupted. " _I am his mother_. Back to the subject. I want you make my burial clothing."

"Wait." Astonished, Bulma stopped walking. "Just how are ill are you? Does he know?"

"He hasn't accepted the inevitability of my impending death, Bulma. Our relationship is both close and distant because of it."

Bulma remembered Vegeta's sad, alcohol-fueled confession of loneliness. He had been carrying the mental weight alone over his mother's worsening health. He could be blaming himself irrationally over something he did or didn't do. Maybe the king had too?

She stooped to Danae's eye level, placing her hand over hers. "Are you resigned to dying? Is there nothing more that can be done?"

" _Maybe I don't want_ _more_ ," the queen said abruptly. "I… do not want more." She looked down. "Regardless, that isn't your concern. Now, what is your decision?"

"I planned to leave for the U.S. the day after tomorrow, but I can delay the trip. I need ideas for what you want. I'll think of some also. My friend Zeus would probably be pleased that I'm helping you instead of crying over him, but I can't stay here much longer. I need to plan his memorial service."

"I understand. Thank you, Bulma. I appreciate being escorted to my room."

"My pleasure."

* * *

Arestis's smug, smiling face crumbled into a serious glare.

Nappa walked briskly from his hidden listening spot as soon as the statuesque woman said "vodka." He wanted to trust Vegeta, but this proved to be harder now after his son's hospitalization. Depression doesn't just disappear – or alcohol dependence. While Vegeta was receiving help, and appeared to be doing well generally, his daily pressures were increasing exponentially.

The general was feeling guilty. He still strongly believed in the prince's capacity to lead, but maybe Vegeta also needed more long-term, supportive psychological treatment away from home to fully recover. Perhaps Bulma was right: everyone wanted something significant from his son without wholly considering his needs. As always, he would do everything possible to protect Vegeta's privacy, short of lying, but seeking the prince's agreement would likely incite World War III between them. Danae would have to know too.

"Arestis."

Her top lip jerked slightly. "Good evening, general."

Nappa moved between her and Vegeta. "Please excuse us, but the prince's motorcade is waiting. We'll respond as needed while the interior ministry oversees the emergency response."

"Of course." Arestis looked at the prince, eagerly expecting him to delay their exit. He may have received her curtly, but he would have left by now if he really wanted to, she thought.

Expressionless, Vegeta adjusted his coat and hat. "Let's go."

Arestis clutched his hand, giving it a slight squeeze. "It was good to see you up close." She bounced on her heels to show more breast cleavage. Vegeta glanced quickly, of course, and then looked straight through her.

"I expect _results_ , not idle... chitchat," he said icily. "Earn your salary." Then, both he and Nappa jogged to the garage.

"She's still as beautiful as ever – and bold."

Vegeta didn't look at him. "I suppose you could call her bold, Nappa. Arestis always had sharp elbows, even when we were children. I certainly won't be falling into her bed drunk. Give me more credit than that. She obviously wants a higher governmental position, and that should not involve me. I never thought she would stoop this low. We haven't slept together in years, and she knew the ground rules. Too bad that she broke them."

"Sire, really, there is nothing more to do tonight. The king has addressed the people on television and radio about the bombings. I recommend getting proper rest, unless you're dying to see the replay. I plan to get mine."

The man was up to something, Vegeta thought. He hoped it would be forgotten, whatever it was.

"We are at war, general." That wretched cliché landed flat. Worse, he sounded like tongue-tied toddler. "Shit. I can't even talk anymore. I give up."

Nappa, who was checking his gun, gave Vegeta an impish side glance. "Undeniably, that _was_ a shameful attempt at eloquence, boy. Drop and give me three-hundred push-ups right now."

"Boy?" Vegeta leaned over and laughed. "Good god, man. Where did _that_ come from? You will ignore my speech defects, general! That's an order! Don't you ever take a break from being a pain in my ass?"

Grabbing his shoulder, Nappa joined in the laughter. "I can't _believe_ you just said that - to me! Well, actually, I can, you cantankerous brat."

"Fine, fine." Vegeta folded his arms. "I'll accept your advice. Any word about Raditz?"

"Yeah. Right arm and left leg are broken, and he has a minor concussion. Burns aren't bad."

"That's fitting," Vegeta replied, cracking his knuckles. "The duke is right-handed. Better for him to live than become a beloved martyr. We don't need any more trouble. I want to see him."

"Seriously?! You beat the hell out of him! And did you suddenly forget what I said about sleeping? I'm fucking tired too!"

"Why not? Raditz is free to reject my visitation. I don't think he will, though. He may despise me now, but his ego will bask in the attention." Vegeta's index finger flew upward. "I, the almighty Saiyan prince, humbling himself from worry and guilt before an aggrieved injured man. Maybe I will sleep by his bedside. Consider it a Machiavellian political gesture of goodwill."

Nappa frowned. "Don't go too far. You don't have to mock him. Rise above it. You are better than this."

"Am I really?" Vegeta said sarcastically. "Colla will escort me to the hospital. Get your rest. I promise to get mine."

The general felt uneasy.

* * *

 **2 a.m.**

Vegeta didn't plan to stay long. Raditz was a mess of bandages and probably wouldn't awaken anyway. Even if he did, no apologies would be made for their earlier argument. Their filial relationship graduated from strained to acidic long ago, aggravated by Arestis. Raditz, who had feelings for her, had been sleeping with her too. Vegeta was completely unaware. He didn't give a shit about the woman's other sexual escapades as long as no child was conceived or venereal disease was shared. Later, he was furious that she tried to play them against each other. Raditz fell for the scheme, blaming Vegeta for "manipulating and hurting her." That didn't go over well.

The irrevocable bond the men shared, forged as children, was sad and horrific. Raditz had been honest about his prior fondness for pills. In a perfect world they could have shared their struggles with substance abuse and supported each other. But the world was imperfect, and Raditz craved power and dominance over brotherhood.

Vegeta allowed one reprieve: He never publicly shared that his cousin had likely murdered King Vegeta's brother, Basil. He felt certain because Raditz's father molested them when they were young boys. Their argument at the mansion was the first time he confronted his cousin about it. Now he regretted it. That secret had been sacred. He felt no remorse for his dead uncle.

Neither boy sought help or told anyone. They were scared and confused despite their education and training, with which Basil had also been involved until his wife left him, taking their son with her. As men, Vegeta and Raditz had struggled with shame and rage ever since. The latter's vengeful envy arose from watching Nappa and Danae and others shower Vegeta with attention - and even King Vegeta, in his dysfunctional way. In Raditz's mind, the prince had no right to be sour about anything.

Vegeta felt nauseated. He hadn't expected the memories to strike him this hard, but a psychologist had warned about so-called emotional "triggers." Now, all he wanted was Bulma's embrace.

"Come to finish the job, _midget_?" Raditz said weakly.

Vegeta leaned on the door, exhaling from weariness. "I would have been successful, _clown_."

Raditz groaned. "Why are you here at this hour? I need to rest."

"Our relationship could have been different, you know."

"Did I just hear correctly? Are you apologizing, Vegeta? Holy shit. I must be dead _– or are you_?"

"Actually, I am not. We both have… devils to exorcise. Goodbye, cousin."

* * *

Vegeta's heart raced as he ran to Bulma's bedroom. He knocked slowly on the antechamber's door to avoid startling her. "Can you hear me? Please… come. Please." Then he just stood there, frozen and glassy-eyed.

Bulma gasped. His face was pale and contorted, as if he had been poisoned. "What happened?"

"I can't do this anymore. I thought I could, but I can't! I am an impostor. My father Nappa knows but won't accept it. That bastard Raditz knows it! You know it too. You know it too, Bulma. I love my country – my people - and I have worked so hard. I have _always_ worked hard. _I am not weak._ I am a fighter! _I was reared to be strong, to face down fear._ People have called me terrible things, and I have never backed down! I am trying to do the right thing now, but I… but I...I'm still not good enough." His jaw and fists clenched.

 _Nappa is his father?_

Bulma settled her mind, staying quiet until he stopped. Her calmness would keep him from shutting down altogether, she thought. Finally, his breathing slowed. "Vegeta, you are safe," she said softly. "You are safe. What can I do to help you? Is it okay for me to touch you?"

He nodded, keeping his eyes averted. "Yes."

She hugged him tight. "Come."

* * *

 **Author's Note: If you're still reading this, thank you very, very much! If you are reviewing or have reviewed earlier, bless you. Every one is appreciated. If you are a lurker, I would love to hear from you. One sentence comments are welcome too. :)**


	12. Cold and Heat

**Recap: Vegeta struggles with his desire for Bulma while wrestling with devastating flashbacks. Bulma considers how to support him without losing herself in the process. (This has some lemony parts, folks.)**

* * *

 **3 a.m. - Thursday**

Bulma had been staring at the wall for hours before Vegeta arrived. The top-to-bottom floor curtains were drawn tight, making the spacious bedroom almost pitch black, had it not been for a few scented candles glowing nearby. The white lace-covered canopy bed was exceedingly comfortable, as Bulma expected, but sleep eluded her. The previous day's events had penetrated the recesses of her mind, finally. She had been truthful telling Vegeta and his mother earlier that she would be fine, but by no means did that translate to "I'm one-hundred percent now." Not even close. Sunrise was around the corner, she thought - only five hours left. She banished the desire to call Vegeta from her psyche. What good would that have done? He asked her to trust him.

Her eyelids fluttered as she sank into the downy sheets and pillows. Rest was on the horizon. She was grateful that the queen made it clear to the staff not to disturb her until she needed something. She could stay locked in there all day without seeing a soul, except for Vegeta, of course.

A phone ring shortly thereafter broke the trance. She breathed in sharply. Her cousin Olivier was likely annoyed, if not downright irate, that she had not contacted him directly yet. They had communicated through e-mail since she departed from New York. He had left the hard work of comforting Bulma to Vegeta at first, with some uneasiness, since the prince was adamant about bringing her to Hegemone. The two men strongly believed in loyalty, a value they bonded over while at university. Neither made close friends easily, either, and were protective of relatives, which for Olivier meant it was time for a heart-to-heart talk with his cousin. He fancied himself as one of the family's headmen now - protecting home and hearth like an old bear - as well as a patrician. For some men, wealth and power tend to exaggerate these otherwise acceptable behaviors more to the point of annoyance.

"How close were you to it, Bulma?"

"Close to what, Olivier?" Bulma said sleepily. "How about saying hello. It is rather early for you."

"My dear, have you forgotten what it's like to run a company? I am calling you when I could be jogging near the Thames to relieve my stress - or having my first glass of scotch of the morning."

Bulma raised up in the bed, hoping to make it through their chat without a hefty argument. "Very funny, old man. If you're drinking booze this early, then _that's_ a problem."

"I can't stomach the terrible stuff, actually," Olivier said, ignoring the jibe. "Tastes like medicine to me, but it's a favorite of Vegeta's, along with costly vodka. You must know that by now. Also, a friendly reminder that I am not much older than you."

Bulma closed her eyes. She realized that he didn't know how bad Vegeta's drinking had been – how difficult everything had been considering the pressures the prince faced. Vegeta must have hidden the problem fairly well when the men last saw each other, during fashion week in London. Bulma had no intention of telling her cousin yet either. One problem at a time.

"Darling, are you still there?"

Bulma sighed. "Yes, yes. I am sorry I haven't called."

"It would have been nice hearing you, considering that there was a bombing. Were you nearby?" He spoke like her father, rumbling like a slow-moving freight train through his sarcastic scolds.

"Look, Olivier, I'm fine."

The loud clatter of a tea cup echoed through Bulma's speakerphone before Olivier spoke again. "You were _very_ close then," he growled. "Damn it! Where the hell were Vegeta and his small infantry of guards? Were you alone? You must be afraid. I am so sorry. I _knew_ I shouldn't have agreed to any of this. Vegeta and I could have taken care of Zeus without you there. I have a mind to call him right now!"

"Olivier Nigel Marlowe, stop it!" Bulma snapped. "I shouldn't have to tell you to be discreet. Besides, I would have traveled to Hegemone anyway, _with_ or _without_ your or Vegeta's help."

"Leave for London today instead of tomorrow, Bulma. You should not remain there longer. My carriage house is ready for you. You are having Zeus cremated here anyway, so stay long as you want – for the rest of your life, even. I will travel to Scotland with you to spread your friend's ashes. Just have his memorial there next month. Other friends can travel to participate."

Bulma smiled and glanced at the wall clock. He still had a heart of gold. "Thank you, but I can't hide forever, and several of Zeus's friends aren't wealthy. They also deserve to pay their respects in person, in New York, and I must… I must return to work. That will help me feel better."

"As you wish, darling. As you wish. I am sorry about this tragedy. Could you at least hear me on something else, please?"

Everyone in their family was pushy. Olivier was especially skilled at wearing others down. Bulma sounded more tired, so he had a vital opening to press her harder. He was a businessman. One uses the tools available to achieve the desired result.

Bulma's eyelids were drooping fast. "Why don't you go jogging now, cousin? I am knackered. Isn't that what the Brits say – or only haughty, U.S. expatriate Anglophiles like you?"

"Ugh. Honestly, that was rude. You sound like aunt Bunny. God rest her soul. I was born here, along with your mother, remember? Now tell me about your relationship status with the prince."

"We are friends."

"Rubbish. What is this, high school? The de facto ruler of a country - who also happens to be a highly private, hot-tempered, and exceedingly wealthy man - asks his longtime friend to pay expenses for a family member following another man's gruesome death. The longtime friend gladly pays, of course, but is also worried. Vegeta can be distant at times, but I care for you both."

"Don't be so dramatic, Olivier. The prince is fond of me. I stood up to him when he acted like an overgrown brat the first time we met. He liked it. Then we charmed the hell out of each other. Now we're friends. I also make nice clothes, for which he pays handsomely."

Olivier sighed. "Okay, we will play hard ball since you're being coy. In my heart I have always known Vegeta to be a good man. He _is_ my friend. He can also be an insufferable asshole. Regardless, I prefer that you keep your distance instead of becoming romantically involved. If you really are just friends, then fine, but he has been a serial womanizer, showing little respect for the strong feelings women have had for him. I never liked that, which he knows, and I am not confident that his behavior has changed."

"The womanizing wasn't hard to figure out," Bulma replied. "You know me. I don't spend time with anyone that I can't be bothered with. Any more secrets to share?"

Olivier wanted more details on the bombing. She wasn't giving up the goods, so he had to try a different approach. "Bulma, I am still the chief executive of a major company. If you think governments are the only ones that engage in spy work, then you're naïve. We have no stake in Hegemone's affairs, but other businesses do. Some are dishonest brokers who will do whatever it takes to get what they want. That includes infringing the will of the people and their rights. Countries rarely change political systems without unrest. I hope peace prevails in Hegemone, but I'm not betting my wealth. This is my terribly indirect way of saying I do not want you to get hurt, emotionally or physically."

Frustrated, Bulma grabbed a fistful of hair. As if she didn't know this already! "Enough, cousin. It's not like I'm marrying the man. Like you, the prince and his family have been generous despite their troubles. We both need sleep, so let's end this. I will be on your chartered plane tomorrow. Bye."

"Cheers, darling. I love you."

Drowsiness had taken ahold again. Then, another interruption dragged her back: knocking, followed by Vegeta's voice. He was pleading for her to come out.

* * *

He wasn't drunk. She was grateful for that, but Vegeta was ill. He calmed down when they first embraced, but then he bolted for the bathroom and vomited repeatedly. Bulma remained relaxed, sitting on the floor for almost an hour wiping his face and whispering that he was safe. Vegeta looked ashamed afterward, saying little as she guided him to her bed and partially opened the curtains.

He had completely broken down with her again. He should have shown more restraint, he thought. This time Bulma's eyes brimmed with pity, even though she had no idea what caused the problem. He _hated_ that. He had become a greater burden. She had to feel that way by now.

Naturally, Bulma considered what triggered his panic attack – because that's what it was. Stress from the explosion could have rattled anyone's nerves, but Vegeta seemed confident leaving the hotel and prepared to confront the aftermath.

He draped his arm over his eyes. "You are… so calm," he said. "Just like the last time."

Shaking her head in disagreement, Bulma sat down. "Recall that I wasn't that relaxed after you arrived drunk at my home, but Zeus and I supported you. As for now, I remembered when he was withdrawing from drugs. Your reactions were similar. I tried to calm your panic attack the same way I did for him."

Vegeta winced. "Oh, _that's_ reassuring. Now I resemble a heroin addict? Can we stick to alcohol?"

"You're feeling better." Bulma smiled, poking her finger underneath his arm. "I'm glad."

"Stop that."

"No, Vegeta. I want you to look at me."

He turned over. "Tiger Lily, please. I should not be here at all, not like this. I had a moment of weakness. I am better. I am better."

Bulma felt unsure whether to ask about Nappa yet, but she hoped Vegeta wouldn't sink beneath his defensive shell. "You promised at the hotel that we would talk," she urged gently. "I am holding you to that now. Are you up for saying what happened?"

"I said drop it!" Vegeta flipped over on the bed. "How many times do I have to repeat myself?"

Bulma stood to blow out the candles. She had to keep her peace of mind. "As much as I want to help, I see you were right the first time. You should not be here any longer, at least for now. You've been up all night and under tremendous stress, as have I, so go rest. I also suggest that you follow the advice you gave me earlier. Don't expect others to pity you when you abuse yourself. You have people who care deeply for you. Push me away all you want – I can deal with it - but let others help you."

" _Do not throw my words back in my face_ ," Vegeta said angrily. "Your pity is obvious. I see it, and as I have said before, I do not want it. Your situation was different." His eyes followed Bulma's confident, graceful stride through the room. "You are… leaving tomorrow, yes?"

"I am. Olivier called. He is concerned about you."

"Let me guess. He is worried that I have seduced you and will callously dump you in the town square."

"Don't do this," Bulma said, holding up her hand. "Just don't. Despite his annoying lecturing, he's aware that I'm not naïve or easily swayed by men's advances. You were no exception, as you well know."

Vegeta looked away. "Even now?"

Bulma stared at him. "Vegeta, you opened yourself in a way you haven't with other women, at least from what I know of your past. You pleasured me because you wanted to yesterday. I felt genuinely cared for. Our connection began because I offered the space for you to explore your sexual interests without judgment. You learned to trust…enough. Our agreement still stands. I ask for nothing more."

Her self-assured response infuriated and shamed Vegeta more. Just because he wanted her completely didn't mean he should have her. That had been his mantra before she arrived. Their faces lost all visible emotion as he stood to leave. Bulma didn't move as he passed, keeping her back to him.

Each breath pummeled Vegeta's chest until he stumbled to a halt. He clutched Bulma's arm to look into her eyes. He was a fool. Yes, he was. Bulma's neck and face flushed red. She shook her head at him, pushing him back.

"Bulma, I…"

" _Don't you dare_ ," she said, covering his lips. "Don't say something that you'll regret later. I'm here for you, but not in that way. I can't be. Your life is complicated enough. So is mine." The last thing she wanted was a pointless, premature declaration of love that she couldn't return.

"Fine then." Vegeta moved closer, holding her arm firmly. "Fine then. I know I have been a fool."

Bulma bowed her head to break from his hypnotic gaze. "You're many things. A fool isn't one of them. I have learned more than I bargained for. Now let me go."

"I _want_ to pleasure you again." Vegeta grasped Bulma's hand again, kissing her tiny fingers. "Allow me."

His dark voice burned like white lightening through Bulma's body. She had seen every inch of his body countless times, caressing the polished grooves as if he were a Renaissance-era sculpture. But now the wolf had reappeared in his eyes. They darted hungrily, awaiting a response.

She was trapped like a stalked deer. Vegeta's head cocked to the side, adorned with a slender, victorious grin. He gently removed her silk robe, dropping it on her feet.

"Art of War, chapter one, verse seven, tiger lily. Recite it for me."

A breathy laugh slipped from Bulma's mouth as their foreheads touched. "Heaven signifies night and day, cold and heat, times and seasons."

Vegeta nodded approvingly. "Very good." He unfastened the bottom of Bulma's lace negligee, inserting his roughened fingers inside of her. Their friction against her clit jolted her, provoking rhythmic, throaty panting. She trembled as his fingers climbed the mound, producing a flood of wetness. He kissed her shoulder and then bit down on it. She winced with pleasure until his tongue encircled and lapped the small bruise and moved to the collarbone. Her leg inched up Vegeta's side, riding his energetic fingers.

"I can bite harder wherever you want me to."

Bulma sighed, attempting to force out words clearly. "Not yet, your highness. Just kiss me."

Vegeta eagerly obliged her request, sealing her soft, supple lips with his own. Their tongues waltzed together, pirouetting with skillful ease. This soon gave way to hot-blooded waves, flowing effortlessly until their breathing harmonized. Bulma wanted Vegeta to ride her like a wild stallion – no, more like a medieval knight's battle charger.

Her knight picked her up, slowly returning to the canopy bed. After sitting down, Vegeta pulled Bulma on top of his legs, pushing his throbbing dick inside until her back arched. He then closed the gap, drawing her closer to increase her clitoral pleasure. He loved hearing her vibrant exhalations and moans. His tongue traced her expanded nipples, guiding her breast into his mouth. He couldn't get enough.

Bulma fingered through his hair. " _I want you to fuck me, Vegeta_." Her head fell back as they laughed together.

Vegeta shook his head with amusement. She was incredibly beautiful at that moment. "Oh, really? _Now you tell me_? I think our whole mess began this way."

He moved Bulma underneath him, throwing off their remaining clothes and straddling her. Her legs hung in the air while Vegeta pushed forward, drawing an excited yelp from her. He rode high, pressing down on her body. Her head fell sideways as his thrusts strengthened. She tried not to scream, especially now that the prince's devilish eyes dared her. He bore down harder, grinding into her. This was only the beginning, he thought. She would feel pain in other ways before the morning ended.

Vegeta looked up as his phone chimed. Important callers had specific ringtones. Bulma lowered her legs as his face cemented into rock-hard seriousness.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I have to take this."

Bulma climbed behind him, rubbing his shoulders. "Should I leave?"

"No. You are a guest. I will talk in the connecting room."

Bulma dressed in her robe, staring as Vegeta entered the other room. "It's okay. I understand." She moved from the door to give him privacy. Then she heard a loud crack, as if wood had been chopped. She threw open the entrance, stopping abruptly to observe a paperweight on the floor. Vegeta paced the room with the phone bent over his ear. "This is unacceptable," he told the caller.

His voice was calm, but the tone was grim as he looked up. Bulma stood silently as he walked past. "You should get sleep. I must leave. Our cook will prepare food whenever you are ready to eat today."

"What about you?" Bulma protested. "You had a _panic attack_ earlier. Something triggered it. You might be risking a worse one if you don't pull back and rest. Can't another person handle the problem? You have an _entire government_ at your disposal. When will you see your mother?"

Vegeta quickly put on his clothes and hat. "Danae will be fine. Also, I know… you're wondering about Nappa. Yes, he is my biological father, which he confessed in New York. Beyond that, I do not want to discuss it. As you said, my life is complicated enough. Those words should have never been spoken."

"Understood," Bulma said quietly. Vegeta didn't hear it, and she didn't watch him leave.

* * *

 **Notes: To be clear, the underlying problem between these two is fear of co-dependency. Others fear that for them too. As it stands, neither Bulma nor Vegeta want her to become his enabler, but it appears that he might be weakening on that end. He isn't trying to hurt or play games with her, because he is falling in love with her. And to be fair, Bulma walked into this entire situation with him thinking that she could control it. We'll see what happens.**


	13. Between Us

**Recap: As Bulma prepares to leave Vegeta's homeland, she is confronted by his mother about his state of mind. Despite setbacks, including his painful panic attack breakdown in Bulma's arms, the prince is trying to maintain perspective. Some see grander plans for their future together, while others would prefer that the lovers remain apart. A surprising revelation may do just the latter.**

* * *

 **3:30 p.m. CET - Friday**

 **Cerinthe, Hegemone**

 **"Accept it"**

Bulma proceeded with royal gracefulness down the mansion's extended portico, closely followed by an attendant carrying her bags. She was a breathless sight in white, as she had been when Vegeta's solemn, dark eyes first set on her visage when she arrived in Hegemone. She couldn't stop thinking about those deeply rooted windows of gleaming volcanic rock. She smiled modestly. The description was fitting, as well as cliché, considering how others liberally compared the prince's demanding character to terrestrial ruptures. He had also confirmed in her presence, once and for all, that his bark could have a deadly bite.

A tall, raven-haired attendant, who looked no older than twenty-one, clasped his hands and bowed. "Ms. Brief, the queen requests your company before departing. Your plane is on standby at the airstrip."

His soft-spoken appeal nudged Bulma from her musing. "Yes, of course. How are Queen Danae's spirits?" She uttered the last question somewhat hesitantly. Vegeta's younger cousin Turles had kept Bulma entertained at dinner the night before and, primarily, a watchful an eye on his aunt, who retired to her room shortly after dining. Bulma found Turles delightfully funny, smart, and easygoing. He couldn't hide his admiration for Vegeta even if he tried, which Bulma also found endearing. He also confided some concerns about the prince to her, after Danae and Tarble left, hoping that she would follow. She didn't say much, though, opting instead to steer him from the subject.

Bulma's escort eyed her, slightly surprised and pleased that she broached conversation about Danae. The mansion's elite staff had gossiped, of course, about how the fetching American woman had managed to capture the prince's attentions – as well as the queen's. Danae's sudden trust and fondness for Bulma had concerned a few quite strongly, in particular. Others found it interesting. General Nappa's relaxed response to the fashion designer's relations with their liege calmed their concerns, somewhat.

"She was feeling poorly again, I am told," the attendant said, holding out his arm. "That is why she did not have breakfast with you. She…has spoken _with_ Prince Vegeta, however."

Bulma couldn't tell whether the otherwise polite helper was being nosy or attempting earnestly to anticipate her immediate concerns. Regardless, she had no plans to ask anyone except the queen or Nappa about Vegeta. She hadn't seen the prince since he left in a hurry the day before. He had not come home, either, having decided to stay a secret location with Nappa and some other advisers. It also had been strange that King Vegeta sent his greetings and well wishes after Bulma arrival - and, now, before her departure - but not once had the man appeared in the flesh.

"I am sorry to hear that about the queen," she said with concern, as well as a pang of guilt. Sure, she hadn't caused Danae's condition, but her presence at first had caused the queen stress, compounded by her kingdom and son's troubles.

Her escort nodded and opened a door leading to another secluded library. "You have nothing to worry about, Ms. Brief. The queen rallies – especially for those who impress her, which I take it you have, _as much as you did with Prince Vegeta_. This is where I take my leave."

"Thank you," Bulma said politely. "Also, I must say, you seem to make a lot of assumptions. I wonder what the prince would think about your openness." Her response had been more mischievous than critical, but it never hurt to draw a line of propriety about private matters. The younger man's disarming voice and gentle brown eyes were useful tools for establishing trust with another – and for gathering what could be extremely useful information.

Unexpectedly, he man grinned. "My fealty rests…with this great country, of which the prince is more than a mere figurehead. Good day, my lady. We should not keep the queen waiting longer."

Bulma rested her hand muff on a Moroccan lattice-style wooden chest before approaching Danae. The queen looked over her teacup's rim, taking stock of Bulma's exquisite clothing ensemble. "Impressive. I can see why my son is smitten with you, in more ways than one. You met him the airport dressed like this when you first arrived?"

Bulma's face flushed. Earlier, she had stood her ground with Vegeta's forthright mother and enjoyed her company. Now, again, she felt like a hesitant schoolgirl. She straightened herself and smiled. "I did. Actually, this outfit is more practical than it looks. The top coat is especially warm. It's perfect for this winter weather."

Danae appeared entertained by her new friend's gentle protests. "First, I want to apologize personally for my husband's _purposeful_ avoidance of you. The behavior is unacceptable, and I make no excuses for his rudeness. Of course, King Vegeta is no fool either – most the time. The fact that our son brought you into our home was enough. The idea of Vegeta courting anyone other than a native Saiyan sets his dentures on edge."

Apparently Danae was warming to the idea of a betrothal for her son, Bulma thought, and the queen looked like she had much more on her sharp mind. Exasperated, Bulma had to regain control, quickly, before their conversation crashed and burned. "Your majesty, I thought we moved on from that topic…"

"You _are not_ leaving on that plane until I get the truth, so make yourself comfortable," Danae courteously ordered. "I spoke with my son already."

Bulma looked confused. "But I haven't lied to you about anything. Did he say something?"

"It is what he _is not_ saying, my dear. How could either of you expect me not to know that he rushed in yesterday extremely upset? While I usually don't want staff to inform me about my son's every move, in this case one person was concerned enough to tell me. I shouldn't have to say that Vegeta probably would have this brave lad's head in a rusty, dull guillotine for telling me."

Bulma cringed at the queen's exaggeration of Vegeta's taste for vengefulness, which belied the depth of Danae's true concern. Once again, she had been cornered by her. Was _everything_ a chess game with this family? Even if she had wanted to marry Vegeta, she was not nearly as calculating as Danae. Not by a long shot – not in this way, at least. She decided to play "honorable lady" again.

"Danae, let me ask you this," she said pointedly. "Put yourself in my boots. Would you not feel somewhat blackmailed by a discussion such as this? You have every right to be concerned about your son, as we discussed earlier, but I believe you both will have an easier time speaking candidly - _after_ _I leave Hegemone_."

Frustrated, Danae struck her cane on the floor. " _Come now, woman!_ _What is it?_ _Alcohol?_ _Drugs?_ I suspect the former. Surely you can set aside these half-hearted attempts to preserve Vegeta's pride to inform me, considering your close… friendship with him."

Fed up, Bulma leaned forward and said, "Make a decision and stick with it, Danae. Either you respect me or not. I won't stand for having _that part_ of my relationship with Vegeta thrown in my face _whenever it's convenient for you_."

Danae didn't budge. "And _I told you_ he struggles. I am not so fragile that I cannot handle the truth. I chose _you_ to deliver the message, because I know you wanted to after we met. Nappa and Vegeta cannot dictate when I reach the graveyard. As long as I'm still breathing, though, I will stand by my son to help him." She looked down to hide misty eyes. "I have... been foolish, Bulma, so incredibly foolish."

Danae's stricken look pierced Bulma's kind heart again. "Look, I know what it's like to watch a beloved parent's health decline, with death not far ahead. Trust me, _you are_ Vegeta's inspiration. He has been ashamed of facing you, or anyone else, with his problems. My heart goes out to you both. I will say that he hasn't been drinking for some time, and _he is leading_. You can see that."

"Leadership _means_ _nothing_ if he dies by his hand," Danae said bitterly. "It is my job now to take charge. My strength is declining, but others still respect me." Realizing how this sounded, she tried to smile. "Hear me well. I have the utmost faith in my son."

Bulma studied her. "But your faith and trust do not extend to others looking to undermine Vegeta," she continued. "Therefore, all of this must be kept secret, you believe. You do realize, however, that Nappa can't protect him forever. You must accept it, just like I have now, despite my fears about what could happen. Vegeta was not in a good state when I first saw him yesterday, but he will be eventually. I also suspect that those who support him wholeheartedly will continue to do so."

Danae touched her chest. "What happened? How bad was it?" Bulma, who had been pouring more tea, felt the tiny hairs rise on the back of her neck. They weren't alone. She turned around.

"Both of you have talked long enough, I believe," a deep voice said from the rear. When he emerged from the shadows, Vegeta's eyes fixed on Bulma, who held his gaze without shame. His mannerisms were subdued, but the women could tell he was angry. Danae pointed at the settee, motioning for him to sit near Bulma. He didn't, opting instead to recline on the wall.

"What do you expect?" the queen pleaded. "I realize that I have pressed you too hard. Now it's confirmed. I am sorry, darling."

"Stop it, mother," Vegeta said quietly. His eyes returned to Bulma. "How much did you tell her?"

" _Do not_ focus your anger on her," Danae said firmly. "I asked her to see me before leaving."

"I'm sure you did," Vegeta replied coldly, "but that does not make Ms. Brief less guilty for breaking our confidences. I have handled my… _difficulties_ … appropriately for months. It will be a year soon enough."

"Yes, and we still have a referendum vote to manage!" Danae shouted. "People are bombing our capital city! Jackals are biting at your legs, including your good-for-nothing cousin! Son, you _must_ step back, completely, for yourself as well as for Hegemone – for however long it takes. Nappa and I have sent mixed messages. I'm so sorry. Your welfare is paramount, above all else."

A glimmer of hurt flickered in Vegeta's eyes, which soon extinguished. "You also have confided your worries about our livelihood in someone you barely know. In any case, I serve at the pleasure the king and queen. I will accept whatever you…and he… decide."

Danae looked at him sadly. "Apparently, Ms. Brief has a remarkable talent for gaining others' trust and respect. I do believe in you, Vegeta. I always will." Feeling light-headed from the stress, she waved for Bulma to pour water, who rapidly obliged.

Vegeta touched Bulma's shoulder to move back. "Your breathing is irregular, mother." He placed his palm on Danae's forehead. "This flare-up is worse. You feel warm. Let's bring in the doctor."

" _I am not feverish_ ," Danae protested grumpily. "For your information, I already _consulted_ with her. Now remove your frigid, clammy hand from me before I bite it off. Honor me by escorting our understanding guest to her plane. You have not laid eyes on her in more than a day, and I am done entertaining on your behalf. Also, at my request, have a _conversation_ – not an argument. We can finish ours later."

Bulma coughed lightly to avoid laughing. Vegeta turned around and smirked. "Having fun at my expense, Ms. Brief? Shall I don a court jester's costume and juggle apples for you, as well?"

Bulma curtsied demurely and replied, "Only if the act brings you enjoyment, your highness." His focus on her was becoming more hypnotic. She shook off the sensation.

In the midst of this, Turles cautiously peeked into the room. "You paged me, aunt Danae?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, boy." Vegeta rolled his eyes at him. "No one has a crossbow aimed at your thick skull, although I'm not sure if it would matter."

"I would have to disagree, cousin, considering that I am a fourth-degree black belt now." Smiling, Turles kneeled beside the queen. "How are you, beautiful? What can I do for you?"

Danae stroked his cheek lovingly. "My son only worries about your welfare, Turles, as I do. We also hold higher black belts and can use weapons. _Think about that._ You could afford to learn more skills. There is danger around."

"Understood, but right now my focus is you," Turles said.

"As it should be," Vegeta said. "See to it that she actually rests this time. And let's get something straight, boy. I am not _worried_ about you. Never have been. I expect more from someone with your intelligence. Plus, you are far more patient than I will ever be. That could serve you well. _Now get out_."

Pleased with the compliment, Turles's eyes lit up. "Yes, sir."

* * *

Vegeta outstretched his hand to Bulma after exiting the library. She held his shoulder as they walked slowly together to the limousine SUV. She cleared her throat to avoid laughing again.

" _Hn._ What is it now?"

"Tell me, who trained you to slip between jackass and gentleman so well?"

Vegeta raised a brow. "You and mother do not make it easy." He paused and sighed. "What happened in your bedroom yesterday should have stayed between us."

"Or what, Vegeta?" Bulma crossed her arms indignantly. "Did you expect me to lie? Also, maybe you should _ask me_ what I said first before assuming the worst. You didn't hear the entire conversation, which Danae dominated. I hadn't brought up the panic attack. She asked if you had an addiction."

"Do you think I enjoy keeping secrets from my own mother?" he snapped. "It's for her own good that she doesn't know everything."

" _Is it really?"_ Bulma was incredulous. "She is an adult, like you, and fiercely independent. She's been your adviser her entire life, and now…"

"My battles with these ailments are not hers to shoulder, Bulma! She cannot win them for me."

"You're right – and maybe Danae feels similarly about her condition, with you and Nappa. But that doesn't mean you can't support each other, as equals. Share the pain you've gone through with her, and recognize hers. Let her support you – fully - so you can do the same."

Vegeta didn't speak for the rest of their snowy drive together. Trying to prod him from brooding was a fool's errand, so Bulma didn't engage further. She had said her piece. The sound vacuum surrounding the plane quickly enveloped the car as they approached the airstrip. A guard ran toward Bulma's door, while the prince exited from his side. Vegeta stood back and squinted as she climbed the jet's stairs. Bulma removed a hand from her furry muff and waved before entering. The prince touched his head, extending two fingers into a solemn salute before re-entering the SUV, alone, after ordering the guards to sit in the front and rear.

After a few minutes, he removed a small, black felt box from his pocket. He fingered the red Saiyan crest stamped before opening the container on a bar tray, next to a soon-to-be filled drinking glass. He compared the radiant shimmer of the diamond engagement ring to the swirling snow drifts. He had willingly called himself a fool in front of this magnificent lady. For no other would he have done that - ever. She told him where their relationship stood, with him agreeing that it was in their best interest to step back. Yet, here he was holding an exquisite ring, purchased on a whim, before sending her away. He closed the jewelry box before sipping from the crystal glass.

The car's remaining passengers knew to keep their mouths shut from the moment the beautiful American left Vegeta's side. Like their queen, this, dedicated close group of watchmen secretly hoped that Bulma _wouldn't_ vanish despite not knowing her completely. Then, maybe, their lonesome prince could find peace – and stop terrorizing them. Califula, the smart, impressive guard who helped at the hotel during the bombing, probably felt strongest about this.

"Hegemone has not seen the last of that woman," she told her partner Colla. "Ms. Brief could be the one who helps Vegeta navigate the difficulties our great nation is experiencing differently – in ways that _other men_ surrounding him have not."

"Nonsense, Califula," the skeptical guard replied. "You sound like our government has no powerful, competent women working on Hegemone's behalf. Ms. Brief does not seem like the type - and, since it seems you have forgotten, she is not ethnically Saiyan! Have you lost good sense? I could accept a marriage, but beyond that her place would be solidly _behind_ him. He is trying to share more of the monarchy's power with our people, not less. Throwing an American socialite into the pot will be hard enough to handle."

"She is _the type_ to lead, ethnically Saiyan or not," the woman said confidently. "Vegeta has fire in his belly. The American has fire in her eyes! They are like Danae's. Mark my words: _She will lead in some way_. When she steps up, I will be there to protect her."

"Califula, I want a word with you! _Now!_ "

Colla snickered, poking her with his arm. "OK, great prophet, the Saiyan lion has roared. Here is your chance to lay the groundwork for his romantic recovery."

Scowling at her friend, Califula activated the intercom. "Sire, how may I help you?"

Vegeta stared through his drinking glass. "This spring water you left here is quite good."

Holding back laughter, Califula smiled victoriously. "Actually, sir, Ms. Brief asked the staff to order three cases of it... for you."

"Of course she did," Vegeta said. "Even better. _Carry on_."

Sobriety was an uphill battle, but he would win – for his country, family, and _for her_.

* * *

 **3:30 p.m., March 4, Wednesday**

 **Brooklyn, New York**

 **"Adoption"**

As promised, Bulma and Danae stayed in touch, talking two days weekly. Bulma realized now that the queen was officially using services as a pretext for keeping her close. The relationship was growing beyond her connection with Vegeta, also, and Bulma found herself wanted to talk more. While the queen had longtime friends and acquaintances from school, some of their daughters had been nasty and shallow. They sought her favor long enough to get in front of Vegeta, who barely paid attention – publicly. One night when he was in his early twenties, Danae was fed up with whispers about liaisons _in their home_. As he passed in the main hallway, looking disheveled and smelling of perfume and booze, she took a karate foot sweep, striking the back of Vegeta's knee until he tumbled. The message was clear. He was banned from dipping into the well of _her friendships_ for his conquests, permanently.

Now the queen was "adopting" the American to share tales. Bulma's sister wasn't thrilled, feeling that she had been through enough with the royal family and Zeus's death. Tights and their cousin Olivier kept in close contact after Bulma returned from Hegemone. They had to steer the paparazzi away, as well, which regained interest about the prince's relationship with Bulma.

She hadn't been well the past week, attempting to shake off a stomach sickness. She couldn't hold any food down on this day, preventing her from working altogether. Like clockwork, Tights delivered a box of ginger tea, soup, and crackers.

"Maybe you should go to the doctor," Tights said. "You look like death."

"And _you_ are a horned pit viper from hell," Bulma said weakly. "Give me the tea. These crackers taste like cardboard."

"And you're having one hell of a mood swing this week." Tights laughed and felt Bulma's forehead. "Well, at least there's no fever right now. I hope you didn't catch some deadly disease in Hegemone."

"It's been almost two months," Bulma muttered, "and it's not like Vegeta's country is prehistoric. Things seem to be getting better, too. No more bombings so far. Anyway, I am thoroughly exhausted."

Tights bottom lip jerked as her stomach suddenly churned from anger and fear. She had overlooked the obvious. Her eyes glided in a circle over Bulma's abdomen. She hadn't protected her baby sister in the way she should have. "I don't want to hear _that man's_ name ever _again_. Damn it. _Damn him_!"

Bulma handed the teacup back. "What the hell is wrong with you, Tights? Now _you_ look like death."

Tights looked up and exhaled. "Sweetie, I think… you're… pregnant."

Bulma's body froze. "You _are_ wrong." She gripped her stomach. "Oh, god, I'm going to throw up again. Move!"


	14. Promises

**Recap: Bulma is faced with delivering life-changing news to Vegeta and accepting the outcome. Which way the wind blows in the prince's homeland of Hegemone depends on future leadership. For now, the prince is doing the hard work to recover his health.**

* * *

 **9 a.m., April 9, Monday**

 **Brooklyn, New York**

 **"Confirmation"**

Almost five weeks had passed since Bulma confirmed her pregnancy. She hadn't spent days crying or fearing the worst. Rather, she had thrown herself into working to cope with the initial shock. Her nausea was subsiding, thankfully, boosting her energy and focus. She hovered over her drafting table, staring at a piece of sketching paper slightly larger than her typical choice. After reviewing women's fashion styles from the 1920s and 30s, she opted to design a silk gown, with a bias cut. Instead of drafting a bodice top, she wanted the fabric to drape over the contours of the shoulders and forearms. The color: sapphire blue. The patron had instructed her to eschew all intricate decoration: no lace patterns, small buttons, and definitely no jewel sequins.

Her soon-to-be child's grandmother would likely be pleased with the work. Now, Bulma considered how to avoid sending the queen to an earlier grave. None of the royals knew about the pregnancy yet. Tights had tolerated her sister's pensive silence for a while. Patience, however, wasn't her strongest attribute. Bulma needed more emotional support, she thought, especially now that Zeus had died. The sisters had to clear the air first, though.

Tights figured the best way to keep Bulma from withdrawing further was by giving her work. She brought clothing for alterations, including tattered pieces for practice designs. Bulma picked through them, frowning. How naïve did her sister think she was? She sat next to the pile on the sofa and began to stencil.

"Honestly, Tights, you could've done this yourself - or used the dry cleaners next to your building." She glanced at her stomach and said, "You're here to discuss the obvious."

Tights nestled into an armchair and stared hard at her. "Well, yeah. You're bottling up your feelings, Bulma, and I can't take it anymore. Enough time has passed."

"For what?" Bulma removed her reading glasses "Don't order me around, either."

"To discuss what's happened, honestly."

"I haven't been dishonest with you about anything, Tights."

"You also haven't said much at all – to me – since you found out. There's a lot to think about, including whether to tell Vegeta if you want to have it."

Bulma crossed her legs defensively. "Not telling him hasn't crossed my mind – and, yes, I want to have _our_ _child_."

"Look, I don't want to argue, but please help me understand. How could you two have unprotected sex? I know we joked about it long before you got involved, but Vegeta really has been a callous lothario and whoremonger for most of his adult life. More than I ever considered. Olivier told me some of the prince's _history_. I would take pregnancy over a deadly, sexually transmitted disease on any day, Bulma, but why didn't you give yourselves a fighting chance against both, at least?"

Bulma's icy blue eyes stared straight through her. " _Back off of the insults_ \- right now - because they're not helping. Did Olivier also say how much he cares for Vegeta? Do you really think our cousin, of all people, would've remained a loyal friend _since their university years_ if there was nothing good about the man? Also, I know _for a fact_ that Olivier would never call a Vegeta a 'whoremonger,' because he's not."

Tights' appraisal of Vegeta's history had been truthfully delivered with gross exaggeration, Bulma thought. Reality fell somewhere in between – although she believed Vegeta's denial of ever using prostitutes. Locking horns with her sister wasn't on the schedule, but so be it. None of their sexual histories had been pristine, and Bulma found it ironic that her sister seemed to have forgotten, conveniently.

"But _you_ are family," Tights replied. "Just listen to yourself. You have fought hard to keep women from being exploited by powerful men your entire life – in the fashion industry, no less!"

"May I remind you that 'whoremonger' is a sexist word, too?" Bulma said before throwing her sketch pad on the floor. "I don't have to justify anything Vegeta and I have done together. Your problem is I haven't confided in you about every detail about my relationship with him. What makes you think I haven't considered any of these issues on my own? I knew the emotional risks. I chose to engage with him, on my terms. I also offered Vegeta opportunity to learn more about himself and I have learned more about me - and, yes, I care for him. He's also known from the beginning that I would never try to tie him down."

"Yeah, well, he might change his mind now that you're having a child," Tights said skeptically. "Perhaps that's why you're taking more time than you should to tell him?"

"He might," Bulma replied. "I doubt it, though. He knows how I think. No one in his position can be _trapped_ into accepting a child unless they allow themselves to be. I have used birth control for years. It failed this time. Having unprotected sex was exceedingly foolish, but I don't regret having sex _with him_."

"I think your feelings are stronger for Vegeta than you're willing to admit or accept," Tights continued. "If he cares for you, then maybe he should put your welfare above himself and cut ties altogether… to protect you and the child."

Bulma shook her head. "It's complicated. I wish you would stop making it harder."

"But, sis, he's had a _drinking_ problem."

Bulma's eyes widened. "Zeus told you?"

"Yeah, a couple weeks after I finally met Vegeta here. Zeus had mixed feelings about your bond, but he also expressed a weird hopefulness for you, as well."

Bulma felt her face warm from anger. "I don't want to go into that - or discuss Vegeta's drinking history."

Exasperated, Tights stood. "Fine, sis, but if you believe Vegeta will stay on the wagon while you're pregnant, then you're fooling yourself. My instincts tell me this. We haven't even begun to discuss that he's trying to steer his country through the biggest political reorganization in almost two-hundred years."

"Well, I see the history student has been busy," Bulma said sarcastically. "Anything else?"

Tights approached the drafting table and looked down. "I know… I'm not Zeus, but I cannot see you hurt or brokenhearted. I'm just scared about everything. It's like your life has been turned into a mystery romance novel – and you're so casual about it. Being pregnant at this age is more difficult, too. You could…"

"Sis, look, I'm neither fragile nor courting death, and I am not lonely – especially having you here. I know you're worried. However, I won't apologize for keeping my own counsel lately. I needed to think. Your love and concern for my welfare are never far from my thoughts. And, like Zeus, you have never shied from speaking truths that I didn't want to hear. The difference is he treated me as an equal. That's what I need from you."

Keeping her eyes on the table, Tights nodded. "I will take your request to heart. I promise. I appreciate your listening to me. Also, this is a beautiful design for a funeral gown."

"Thank you," Bulma said, anticipating another question. "It's for Vegeta's mother."

"Yeah, I just figured that out. How long… does she have to live?"

Bulma embraced Tights from the back, like she did as a little girl. "Much longer than she believes, I think."

"How do you think she'll react over the pregnancy, sis?"

Bulma paused. "She doesn't worry me as much."

Danae was scamming her, Tights believed. The queen wanted Bulma to care for Vegeta at her sister's expense, putting his needs above hers permanently. That had to be the case. Tights would be damned if her sister would be used by _anyone_ to enable a man. She promised Bulma to be less overbearing, but she would not give up being the voice of reason.

* * *

 **8 p.m., April 9, Monday  
**  
 **Cerinthe, Hegemone**

 **"Considering"**

Sitting alone in a meeting room, Vegeta rubbed his chin to decide whether he wanted a full shave. His countrymen rarely went without facial hair until the 19th century, when a cadre of Saiyan nobles returned from other countries with "new ideas" about style and personal conduct - as if their citizenry had been wanton barbarians before. Vegeta noticed others acted more serious around him, including the king, as his goatee filled out. This, as he retreated to recover his mental health. During therapy, he finally admitted how broken and inadequate he felt. His web of fury included the female psychotherapist's "incessant questions" about Bulma. He almost regretted discussing her during his treatment. He also warned the doctor not to expect _miraculous_ personality changes. That would have been folly. However, he disguised himself to attend Alcoholics Anonymous meetings occasionally. For all of his knowledge, he had not considered that even in his country, the support group had a strong presence there. His participation was nothing short of amazing, considering his understandable concerns about being exposed, as well as his defensiveness and discomfort with activities that seemed "spiritual." Califula and Colla were his main escorts to the nondescript meeting location. They would not hesitate to kill anyone who tried to harm the prince or, presumably, other innocent people there. Other guards were stationed farther from the location in case they needed more help.

Meanwhile, the prince's squad of advisers and political operatives had been doing their jobs effectively and kept him well-informed, despite his tiresome perfectionism. Nappa continued to be his gatekeeper, much like any other de facto chief of staff. Their so-called "troops" merely considered Vegeta's choice to maintain a lower profile as another strategy to confuse opponents – a belief the prince used for his benefit. He also found value in keeping his operatives somewhat off-balance, in order to encourage better work. He did not play favorites and berated anyone who tried to impose social hierarchy under his watch.

Advisers also sought Queen Danae's opinions, as well, when she felt up to it. In some ways, her lifetime of being a "shadow diplomat" made her counsel more invaluable than the king's. Her son didn't interfere much, but he privately warned others against overstepping. The direction was rarely delivered with pleasantries. No one expected them, really. Had his behavior changed, both supporters and foes would be anxious. Vegeta had never been overly impulsive about his decision-making, despite his obsession with performance. The strict separation between his playboy persona and his professional one had blurred more as his drinking increased – and even that took years to weaken him. But the "James Bond" façade had soured, ultimately.

Clashes between Saiyans and Yardrats along Hegemone's northern and southeastern regions remained deeply concerning. Some frustrated Yardrats activists in the region – both peaceful and violent - quietly discussed secession, even, despite its improbability. Leadership from the kingdom's capital was cautious, encouraged by those who desired sensible, sustainable solutions to the unrest, including most of the royal family. The government's "containment strategy" had been one source of Raditz' anger and frustration, supposedly. He called it "weak," and his injuries from the bombing at ther old palace hardened his opinions. Calling the duke's political views "conservative" was an insult to conservatism, Nappa once said. "Frothing at the mouth, rabid dog" was a better description, the general added.

But the citizens had _genuine_ concerns. Before the clashes and protests began, local Saiyan officials and wealthier residents in these outlying areas had long ignored the police brutality, as well as increased institutional corruption and graft. Danae had felt most pained over this, realizing how much political-and-financial power-sharing needed greater change – in spite of her careful influence on the king and his advisers across decades. Rather than relying on taxation, she encouraged the family's liquidation of some financial holdings to strengthen the government's civil service. She and Vegeta had a well-spring of ideas for other improvements. But, like his cousin, Vegeta had questioned the effectiveness of containment when groups now were boldly testing the waters through violence in order to be recognized. The bombings in Cerinthe infuriated him. Many people had suffered, and the central government barely escaped looking ineffectual in its response. Why? Because Vegeta and others were assholes behind the scenes, demanding improvement. King Vegeta could be the domestic figurehead to calm and inspire their people, which he did well at that crucial time.

Being heavy-handed in the outer regions would alienate Yardrats with no desire to separate from the kingdom, including those living and working closer to big cities, and industrial and major farming regions. When the Royal National Guard deployed to the struggling areas, the goal was stopping conflict on all sides _immediately_. For many residents, though, the additional military presence felt more like an occupying force - and who could blame them, really? Worse, guardsmen now were being attacked by new paramilitary guerrilla fighters – the source of the bombings – which couldn't continue.

The intelligence unit of Hemegone's Interior Ministry located weaponry likely delivered through Tuffle-controlled areas using clandestine, illegal supply chains. Black market suppliers could be anyone. Tuffle officials could claim that they weren't involved and suggest that Hegemone improve border patrols. Valuable territory between the countries existed that the Tuffles would gladly claim if they had a convenient excuse. Hegemone politicians had been drafted to weaken and spread disinformation about the existing government. Some had likely been blackmailed, too, forcing them to betray those they had taken oaths to serve. The Tuffles had not succeeded with other elements of its covert propaganda campaign, but they were gaining ground.

Interestingly enough, Vegeta's checkered romantic history was a poor target for blackmail. _Everyone_ _in Hegemone knew,_ from the smallest villages to the largest cities. As much as Nappa, Danae, and others disapproved, at least they didn't have to worry about "fixing" that issue. Vegeta didn't parade his behavior flagrantly, like more arrogant ladies' men in the spotlight. Hegemone's people had been forgiving – perhaps a little too much – but public opinion could be fickle. Still, it was no one's business whether he chose to marry. Vegeta would shout that in a cathedral if anyone confronted him.

Now, he was considering it. Life was difficult enough, but Bulma was never far from his thoughts.

"May I join you?"

Vegeta looked up with bleary, tired eyes, but his hobby had been relaxing. Interruption was less irritating now. "You've been standing there behind that cracked door for the last fifteen minutes, Nappa."

Nappa smiled, remembering how his son enjoyed perusing maps and playing strategy games since childhood. "I see you haven't forgotten everything I taught, except that you're seated with your back to the door. What the hell?"

Vegeta leaned back to remove his gun and boot knives as the general seated himself. "Your breathing is loud enough to wake the dead, man. You should brush up on your stealth assassination skills."

Nappa propped his feet on the long table, waving his arm. "Yeah, yeah. Stop showing off. Be sure not to sever a vein with those things. Are they sharpened and oiled well?"

Frowning, Vegeta returned to his hobby. "You're not here for small talk. Get to it."

Nappa, who wasn't done teasing, said, "You look like an actor from`Dr. Zhivago.' It works for you."

Vegeta resisted smiling, though Nappa was making it hard. He sighed. "Fine. My sleep is improving. Don't be fooled by the way I look now. I have no desire to slam my beating heart entirely on this table for further examination by you. That why I pay that slave-driver woman who calls herself a psychotherapist."

Nappa laughed out loud. "I see _you are_ doing better, thank god. Danae does, too."

"Leave god out of it," Vegeta replied irritably. "I can do this myself. People with far less than I have _work_ and _live_ decent lives with problems like mine. They should not be shunned and shamed."

Nodding respectfully, Nappa said, "Sire, it's up to you whether to tell the public. I'm uncomfortable with it, given the tremendous tasks we're all facing, but I will support you wholeheartedly. If you wanted to live permanently in a mountain hut while the rest of us figure this shit out, I would support you. In fact, I would prefer it. I only want you to get better."

Vegeta felt a pang in his chest – one of sadness and shame. He suddenly changed his mind about avoiding the inevitable. "Sit... down again. As my father, it's time that you know everything."

"What, son?" Nappa's hands fell to his sides as Vegeta's eyes met his. Fear gripped him – a rare occurrence.

"Raditz and I were sexually abused, repeatedly, by his father."

Nappa struggled to catch his breath. "Oh, my god." He clasped the tableside as grief stabbed him. " _Oh, god, no!_ I'm so sorry, son. I'm so very sorry!"

Vegeta looked away. "Just…stop. You have nothing to be sorry about. We trusted Basil. _He helped train us_. He groomed us for his abuse. I did well for a long time while growing up, more or less, because of you, mother, and others in the royal court. There was no reason to tell anyone, I believed then. I especially didn't want you and the king disappointed in me. Raditz hates me now because I still have your support, despite my many faults. That, and Basil considered me to be his 'favorite.' But we cannot allow my 'cousin' to destroy our entire country now because of his poisonous anger and resentment."

Devastated, Nappa's head hung down. "You were just boys."

Vegeta retrieved his weapons. "We were, but it could have happened to anyone." He placed his hand on Nappa's shoulder. "Let's go."

* * *

 **Noon, April 10, Tuesday**

 **Brooklyn, New York**

"Vegeta?"

"Tiger Lily."

Bulma took a deep breath before answering. She had planned to call within the hour to tell Vegeta about her pregnancy. Of course, he beat her to it. She wondered sometimes if he had latent psychic powers. "How did you get this number?"

Vegeta smirked and said, "Mother gave me her phone. I wondered if you still had the one I gave you."

"Are you kidding me?" Bulma laughed softly. "So you found out. She betrayed me."

"I can't believe she sent a secure phone _just to chat_ , but Danae always has been unconventional," he replied.

"Indeed, she is." Bulma paused, reflecting on the queen's other request. Vegeta sounded like he didn't know.

"Obviously, you are designing something for her."

"Yes."

"Will one of you tell me?"

"No, Vegeta."

He glanced at his watch. "It's midday there. How are you faring? You sound like you're in bed. I apologize for disturbing you."

"I wasn't feeling well today. Just needed to take a break. Please, don't hang up."

Vegeta heard a lilt in her voice. Others wouldn't notice it, but he paid attention to everything. She had something to say. "Had you planned to contact me?" he asked. "I called to deliver news."

"Yes." Bulma gripped her bed sheets. " Today, actually. I have something to tell you also. If you don't mind, may I go first? Are you seated?"

Vegeta approached the fireplace in Danae's library office. "You know I prefer standing when there's bad news."

"Vegeta, I'm... pregnant." Bulma bit her lip. "I found out March 6. I had planned to call today."

Vegeta felt a dreamlike calmness sweep through him. That wasn't necessarily a good thing. _She had waited five weeks to tell him._ He bent over to poke at the wood in the fireplace. "You want to have it?"

Bulma was taken aback slightly. "Yes, I do." The detachment in Vegeta's voice was apparent. He sounded emotionless, rather than unkind.

"You have every right to wonder whether I would be a good father – if not afraid," he said sadly.

Bulma's eyes closed. "Maybe we should talk by video. This is a shock for us both, you know?" By then Vegeta had already tuned her out.

"I would be afraid, too," he continued. "You can't even bring yourself to attempt to love me fully. Having a child won't make it easier."

"You know how much I care for you," Bulma said. "Believe me, I'm not trying to string you along. It wasn't easy to leave Hegemone at all. We're also almost five-thousand miles away from each other."

"I…will make sure our child has everything it needs, discreetly," he replied. "Beyond that, unless you have more requests, I will keep my distance from you both. _That is_ a _promise_. Separately, I wanted you to know we arrested suspects who likely murdered Zeus. They will be tried in court soon. I hope this news helps. Goodbye, Tiger Lily."

He was sure that Bulma would have told him earlier had she not feared what his and his family's presence in their child's life would do. However much it hurt, he understood. They both should have been more careful.

Bulma held the phone long after their call ended. Tights had gotten her wish, she thought.

* * *

 **Notes: Always, thank you for the comments and continued interest.**


	15. Long Distance

**Recap: Bulma finally told Vegeta about her pregnancy, resulting in an emotional discussion about his preparedness for fatherhood. Bulma's sister Tights wants them apart because of Vegeta's alcoholism - though he is in recovery - and her fears about his country's future. She's also wary of Queen Danae's influence over Bulma, considering it "manipulative."**

* * *

 **Cerinthe, Hegemone** : **4:45 p.m. CET, July 30, Monday**

 **"The Royal Hydra"**

Vegeta had been mired in paperwork the entire day. He tried to be patient – never his strong suit with duties such as these – and simultaneously considered firing the family's entire administrative staff. Having highly paid assistants who weren't managing the minutiae occupying him seemed foolish and inefficient. Weariness hung like a shroud, and yet he managed to reject drinking alcohol. His winning streak on consistent sobriety heartened him. Nappa, as well, though the general knew better than to encourage celebrating each milestone _with him_. Vegeta needed the general's fatherly support more than ever, but overcoming his shame required patience.

Fortunately, the general had _plenty_ of experience and understood the long game. But he also worried more about Vegeta and Raditz' toxic, irreparable hostility. When the prince was a child, Nappa occasionally asked what happened that made them hate each other so. Vegeta's sullen, angry eyes fixed on Nappa's until the boy changed the subject – or demanded to. The general's soul ached knowing that King Vegeta's pedophile brother Basil widened the cousins' rift.

That said, no one could afford having Raditz possibly derail Vegeta's recovery. The duke didn't hide his penchant for treachery. His personality flaws were ripe for exploitation, too. Though distasteful, the general also considered whether Raditz represented a lethal threat. He would be remiss if he didn't – and he would blow holes through the duke's chest if Vegeta were conspired against and murdered. In theory Nappa hated vigilantism, but he also didn't give a fuck about being jailed because of Vegeta. No one was above the law – and he could accept being a hypocrite.

Vegeta had felt a tiny, serene light of hope within him since Bulma disclosed her pregnancy. He also hoped she wouldn't reject a future request to hold their child, just once, after giving birth. She wasn't cruel, and no doubt she would be a dynamic mother. His promise to support them on her terms, without further interference, was less heart-wrenching now. He consoled himself believing that his otherwise turbulent existence had brought another genuine joy - despite his inability to share in it.

Still, the prince was very much in love and likely would be for a long time, as Nappa prophesied. Not having Bulma near him hurt, but he couldn't be consumed by the loss. Each horrendously painful therapy session and, separately, private testimony to his fellow alcoholics were crucial supports. He hadn't decided on telling anyone yet, his mother especially, though not from embarrassment. For all he cared, Bulma could tell the entire fashion industry that a space alien impregnated her. She had to feel safe, not pressured.

He rubbed his eyes to shake off fatigue. Soft footsteps behind him went ignored, because he knew to whom they belonged.

"Do you have a few minutes to talk, cousin?"

"That all depends on what you want," Vegeta replied. "I _am_ busy right now." Forever the scamp, he stared hard to make Turles squirm. The young man needed some fire in his belly.

Feeling dejected, Turles shoved his hands into his pockets. "OK. I won't bother you."

Rolling his eyes, Vegeta pushed a chair over to him. "You have accomplished that, so speak your mind. You give up too easily. I would have said 'return later' if I wanted you to leave, which I seldom do with you or my brother. Moreover, if you're not feeling confident, have some pride and _fake it_ until you do."

Turles's face beamed now that he had Vegeta's undivided attention.

"I have two subjects to discuss!"

Leaning back, Vegeta eyed him. "So I have a fifty-fifty chance of saying 'no' to one request?"

"Well, I suppose so," Turles said nervously. "Just hear me out, please. I want time off from university."

"No." Vegeta said, laughing. "Next."

"Oh come on, Vegeta!"

"Do you think I'm a fool, Turles? You want to quit - and I am not thrilled being tested before you tell the queen. I will not protect you. Also, dawdling across continents without money is unwise."

Turles lifted his chin defiantly. "Aunt Danae wouldn't cut me off financially."

Amused by his cousin's naiveté, Vegeta snorted. "Try her, kid. I was good practice before her sister birthed you. Now stop wasting my time."

Turles removed a catalogue from his shoulder bag, throwing it to Vegeta. "Actually, I want to transfer to design school and staff runway shows…in New York City."

Vegeta's teasing ended abruptly, followed by uneasy silence.

"Turles, some of the best fashion houses are in Europe." Pausing, he stared at wall map of Hegemone. "Look, I know our country is having a rough time, but…"

"Then you understand," Turles interrupted. "I need to be far away, to be my own person – to feel safe. I guess you could call that dishonorable, but I'll never be like you and Danae, or my mother and father. Besides that, you were almost killed. Maybe you were the target, Vegeta. Is what you're doing worth it?"

He touched the wrong nerve.

Vegeta's face darkened. "First, _be your own man_ and don't use my decisions to justify yours. Second, perhaps you should reflect on the benefits you have as a member this family - and as a fellow countryman. Maybe then you will understand the sacrifices all of us have made. _Now get out_."

The prince returned to his paperwork while Turles stayed seated. Their stand-off lasted all of five minutes before Vegeta threw the catalogue over his shoulder, smacking Turles's head.

"Ow! Damn it, man! You don't know your own strength sometimes. That book is thick."

"Oh, I sure do know," Vegeta replied. "What part of _leave_ do you not understand, brat?"

Turles grinned. "So you will support me?"

"What choice do I have?!" Vegeta snapped. "Now what else do you want?" Turles hesitated, then looked up, focusing on the prince's custom-made, monogrammed turtleneck shirt – a gift from Bulma.

Vegeta shut his eyes and counted backward from ten. " _If there is a god, this boy might see him soon after I murder him,"_ he thought.

He detonated.

"Absolutely not! Hell, no!"

"But Ms. Brief likes me!" Turles protested. "I made her laugh, too. I'd love to be her apprentice. Why can't you smooth the way? You have feelings for each other anyway, obviously - and I know Danae won't agree unless you do."

Vegeta tapped his chin and calmly replied, "Do you know it takes _less than_ fifteen seconds before strangulation causes unconsciousness?"

Turles's face paled. "I...I… know."

"Good," Vegeta said. "Your combat training has paid off. Bulma is off limits – and trust me, she wouldn't accept your appeal. Her hands were full with mother's requests before - whatever the hell they were - to my irritation. Now leave here while you still have an _uncrushed_ windpipe."

"You can be such an asshole. You know that, cousin?"

"Better to see me as I am," Vegeta said, pushing Turles into the hallway. "Then you will be less disappointed. I can support you in other ways."

After locking the door Vegeta sank back into his desk chair and covered his eyes. The royal family had become a hydra in Bulma's life – minus the lethal poison.

"Less than three months until I am a long-distance, invisible father," he sighed. "Maybe I should find religion myself."

* * *

 **Brooklyn, New York: 3:30 p.m. ET, August 1, Wednesday**

 **"A Little Piece of Heaven"**

Bulma toddled through her studio pushing a cart of fabric skeins for weaving. Crystal, her peripatetic apprentice, would arrive soon to use a back-strap loom that had been gathering dust. Bulma hadn't felt mentally or physically energetic enough that week to juggle complex design work, blaming her condition on "nerves." Approaching the final weeks before giving birth was exciting and daunting. Fortunately her pregnancy's second trimester had been complication-free, despite more weight gain than she expected.

Zeus had been on her mind, too. He would've thrown himself enthusiastically into helping with the baby, she told her sister through tears the previous evening. Her pain over his death ran deep. She didn't mention that Vegeta was in her thoughts more, as if her sister didn't know already.

Tights silently tolerated Bulma's intermittent contact with him about the pregnancy, which was enough. She was content as long as the prince didn't pressure her baby sister in any way. Vegeta hadn't told his relatives, obviously, which Bulma knew. Tights had mixed feelings about that but ultimately put them aside. Someone else in the prince's overbearing family would learn eventually.

Within days Crystal called to cheer Bulma, suggesting they plan a day to cook and gossip about the latest fashion rivalries. She arrived with grocery bags and wide-eyed amazement over Bulma's appearance.

"Wow, Ms. Brief. Wow. Are you having a boy?"

Bulma laughed. She was well past neuroticism over her body. "Oh, stop gawking, Crystal. Remember, you'll get eye wrinkles. I know I'm huge and, yes, I am having a boy."

After a warm hug, the women joked and chatted for hours until hunger assaulted them. Crystal carried the loom to the kitchen, tying it to a pole. Bulma had felt soreness under her right shoulder, so Crystal demanded to cook alone while they continued talking.

"So, uh, you and the pint-sized prince of darkness are having a kid?"

Bulma interlaced her fingers. "What makes you say that? You and I haven't seen each other in months. There are other ways to become pregnant these days, in case you've forgotten."

"Ms. Brief, I may be scatter-brained, but I'm not an idiot. You returned from Hegemone so… different. Prince Vegeta sheltered you and stayed with your dying friend at the hospital until you arrived. Powerful men like him don't do that freely until they care deeply for someone. Anyway, I have no interest in being the town crier about whatever kind of relationship you two have. I really had no idea. _None._ People can think whatever they want, but are you ready to be in the spotlight like this?"

"I don't plan to be," Bulma said, handing her a bag of onions. "Vegeta and I are private people, as you know - so as much as I adore you, we're changing the subject."

Crystal nodded. "I understand. Hey, look, maybe you should lie down for a while. We've had a good time so far. It will take about an hour to finish cooking, and you seem more drained than earlier – and you're rubbing your temples."

Crystal was right, of course, but Bulma refused to concede. "I'm just having a baby," she said, staring at her swollen legs and feet. "But I could use some Tylenol before this becomes a full-fledged headache. The bottle is in my room. I'll be right back."

At first the hallway looked cavernous as Bulma left the kitchen. She leaned on the brick wall briefly to steady her gait. This wasn't the first time and unlikely the last. The next prenatal visit was in a couple days anyway. Her blood pressure was slightly elevated during a checkup a month earlier, drawing more scrutiny from her doctor, but within a day all vital signs were perfect and remained so.

Feeling dizzy, Bulma stopped to sit on her bed. She was used to this, too. Not a big deal. Didn't happen a lot.

Then her eyesight blurred, replacing the visual aura accompanying her headache. She shook her head a few times. _"I need some water,"_ she thought. _"I'm just dehydrated. Shame on me for ignoring it."_

She clutched the bed's footboard to stand, shaking her head a few more times, but the dizziness worsened. " _Oh god, something is wrong."_ A sharper pain took hold beneath her shoulder. She touched her right side, trying to catch her breath. Anxiety flooded her mind after realizing she couldn't yell for help. " _No, god, please. I want my baby."_

Crystal swilled a mouthful of wine hoping that her mentor had decided to rest. Barefooted, she slid down the hall to the master bedroom. She dropped her glass and raced inside after seeing Bulma passed out on the floor.

Bulma awoke briefly while Crystal elevated her head and dialed for an ambulance.

"You're going to be just fine, Ms. Brief," Crystal said with a firm, soothing voice. "Do you hear me? Stay awake with me here, OK? What am I going to do without your advice? I can barely tie my shoes correctly. I'm sure this baby's papa wants you around, too. You have yourselves a little prince now, Cinderella – a little piece of heaven. Don't forget that."

Bulma smiled.

Her full awareness didn't return until two days later at the hospital, on Friday. She licked her lips until her sister swabbed them with cold water.

"You fondness for drama is amazing," Tights said, looking relieved. "Don't ever scare me or Crystal shitless like that again - and don't say anything. Just listen. You have preeclampsia, meaning your blood pressure and protein levels in your urine were high."

"I…know…what it is," Bulma said weakly. "What…about the baby?"

"Bulma, though you are relatively stable, inducing labor or having surgery may be necessary soon. You will need long-term monitoring, so we're transferring you to New York-Presbyterian Hospital today. Cousin Olivier and I think it's better. The obstetrics staff is well-regarded and the amenities there will lift your spirits, I hope."

Tights looked down while her sister cried. Bulma was furious with herself for not paying closer attention. Neither she nor her doctors pressed each other hard enough. Now her child could be born premature or die outright. Her living through this wasn't guaranteed either, even if she were home on bed rest.

"Vegeta…"

Tights rubbed her arm. "Bulma, honey, maybe we should wait. You both agreed to keep some distance."

Angry, Bulma snatched her hand back. "Damn it, Tights," she gasped. "Call."

"Fine," Tights said, retrieving her sister's phone. "My watch says it's 2 p.m. there."

Bulma wanted to sleep but held out until Vegeta answered.

"Hello? Hello? Bulma, are you there?"

Satisfied, Vegeta's tiger lily closed her eyes and nodded. _At last._

"Yes," Tights answered curtly, "but she's in the hospital, Prince Vegeta. This is her sister."

Surprised, Vegeta wisely ignored her hostile attitude. They would address _that problem_ later.

"How bad is it?" he asked, adjusting his tone. "Can she speak at all?"

Tights gnawed her fingernails as Bulma dozed. "She's exhausted right now – and I know I'll regret saying this later, but you might want to travel here soon if possible. She's been through a scare and asked me to call."

Vegeta hated when people linguistically substituted "might" when they actually meant "should." He looked at his watch. "I will be there as soon as I can."

"We'll be at Mount Sinai Hospital, in Manhattan," Tights said. "If you can't reach us quickly, call Olivier. He'll be here tomorrow. I have to go. Goodbye."

"Goodbye indeed," Vegeta grumbled irritably.

A ruddy-skinned attendant he paged entered looking confused. Why was the prince home cleaning a gun?

Vegeta closed his tool kit and faced him. "Finally, a new one – and you are fast. I like that. What is your name? You look no older than - what - seventeen?"

Though anxious, the young man bowed with impeccable poise. "My name is Dante, sire. How may I assist you?"

Vegeta pointed at his notepad. "I want enough clothing packed for a week, equal parts business and casual. Have them ready within two hours… or less, with toiletries, shoes, and appropriate accessories. Make sure the travel concierge books a private jet cabin to New York City tonight, plus accommodations for me and security near New York-Presbyterian Hospital. I might have several more requests, so do not disappoint me. I will make your life harder, eventually, until you return to the academy - and enjoy every minute of it."

Dante looked delighted. "Yes, Prince Vegeta."

"Another thing," Vegeta said with a solemn gaze. "Have two vases of tiger lilies delivered to the hospital. I will retrieve them."

Dante scurried past a baffled Nappa, who just finished a late lunch with the queen. Emotionally shaken over Bulma's condition, Vegeta tried to regain focus.

The general glanced at the gun, then back to Vegeta. "What's wrong?"

The prince looked up. "Bulma is ill, and you might have a grandchild shortly - or we could lose them both."

Before the general could respond, a voice echoed behind them.

"Well," Danae said, "when are we leaving, son?"

* * *

 **Notes: Thanks for reading, as always. Glad to get more stuff out when I can. Let me know what you think.**


	16. Living in the Moment

**Recap: Vegeta has been called to the U.S. to support an ill Bulma, who may miscarry or deliver prematurely, and is at risk for death. Before leaving, he must deal the fallout from disclosing Bulma's pregnancy to his mother Danae and biological father Nappa. He also faces other thorny challenges. Bulma must confront herself as well as Vegeta to move forward.  
**

* * *

Looking grim, Nappa moved aside while Danae slowly approached Vegeta. She glanced back at the general, icily frowning her disapproval for more than being unaware of Bulma's pregnancy – although Nappa hadn't known either. She rejected his follow-up offer to hold her arm. Her cane drummed the wooden floor like a field commander.

"Danae, trust me, this is the first I've heard," Nappa said. "Now please, let me assist you."

"I trust you on _that_ declaration, general," she said with fire in her eyes. "However, I am through being _handled_. This stops now. We are not getting any younger."

Danae stared at Vegeta, who bowed his head in obeisance. He gently clasped her extended hand, both from love and respect, to escort her.

"My queen, you're not being fair. Nappa and I…"

"Nonsense, son," Danae said softly. "You of all people learned _from me_ that life is not fair, despite your entitlement. Let us begin with Ms. Brief and my soon-to-be grandchild. Then, your paternity."

"Bulma's sister called on her behalf," Vegeta replied. "I do not know every detail, but it is serious. The child is due in…"

"Late October, perhaps around the 25th?"

"The 21st," Vegeta said. He reminded himself never to underestimate her razor-sharp comprehension.

Danae shifted in her seat. No need to mince words.

"If they live," she continued, "babies at Bulma's stage of pregnancy are destined to have severe health difficulties. However, modern medicine is impressive. I'm sure her cousin arranged for the best care."

Vegeta nodded. "Olivier will be there tomorrow."

"Very good," said Danae, observing his agitation. "Now tell me why you hid this from us, son?"

Suddenly feeling tired, Vegeta had enough his mother's highhanded confrontation.

"Mother, really? You bit my head off when Bulma first visited – and now you're best friends? She has been kind and helpful to you because that is her nature. Though you have settled on believing that we should be together, our circumstance is far more complicated beyond this pregnancy."

"But," pressed Danae, "you are in love with her."

"Yes, I'm in love with her!" Vegeta shouted angrily. "Of course I am! What more do you want from me?! I'm also a borderline alcoholic with depression, and... and…" He stopped to catch his breath. "Mother, I accepted the tightrope upon which I stand, to remain committed to Hegemone. Not once has Bulma pressured me for more. She knows how I feel, but I also must respect her wishes."

Startled, Danae clenched the chair's arm rest. She felt like a fool.

"Alcohol? I do not understand. How could you not come _to me_ for help? Why? Did I do something to make you not trust me? Oh, Vegeta. I'm so sorry."

Nappa had heard enough. Danae was doing the opposite of what Vegeta needed. Given the news, he thought she would use a lighter touch. She usually did.

" _Stop it_ , Danae," he said. "He needs time – and so do you. _Vegeta_ , go, now. "

Mind reeling, the prince rejected the general's order. "No, we are not done, Nappa. No. She is right. This must happen. I am in treatment, mother. I am sorry. I am carrying out my duties responsibly."

"And you are done," Nappa said, sternly glaring at Danae. "You must be in good shape for the trip, Vegeta. Finish preparing yourself."

The prince's frustration subsided as Nappa's sturdy hand steadied him. "Yes, general. Yes, you're right."

Considering his options as Vegeta left, Nappa faced Danae. She sat upright, waiting for an explanation.

"Danae, I will tell you once," he said at last. "Do not make this about you. What was that just now?"

Wood chips scattered as Danae's cane struck the coffee table. "What the hell do you mean, general?! You've watched and _hidden_ Vegeta's illness from me! Alcohol dependence doesn't begin overnight! Furthermore, how did he learn that you are his father?"

"Damn you, woman!" Nappa retorted. "He's smart, Danae! He figured it out! I admitted my fatherhood after he had a drunken breakdown, following last year's U.N. speech. His bond with your husband has suffered because of King Vegeta's suspicions about us. Other issues only Vegeta can share if he so chooses. He still has his pride, and I've endured a lot crap to help because I love him. Rightfully, he has been uncertain about his life's trajectory, as well as his duties. I had to accept that. So should you."

"Do not lecture me," Danae said, looking away. "I am aware of his ambivalence. Recall that I encouraged him to pull back to care for himself - which he has, apparently. But you see his commitment to work."

"Fine then," Nappa replied. "Since childhood we have tried to protect him. He also has tried to protect us from many troubles. Sometimes… parents miss what is in plain sight."

"Like this accidental pregnancy," said Danae. "We walked their path together too, Nappa. I am not angry with him – and I don't care about propriety. I want to help. Vegeta will hurt terribly if the worst happens. Terribly."

"I know, but you are queen and propriety matters – along with Bulma and Vegeta's privacy. Think about what he said. She's unready to love in the way he desires, and she may never be. She has considered whether her presence would distract and derail him. Having a child, though, changes one's perspective."

Danae smiled. "As we both know."

Nappa wiped Danae's tears as they kissed. "You cannot go, my love. Your health is important, as well. We must wing it, as the Americans say. I will be with our son on this trip. Make yourself useful. Apply your brilliance to handling King Vegeta until we return."

Danae's insides burned with resentment over her husband. Until now, King Vegeta was the only father the prince had ever known, and the boy had loved him. Neither spouse had slept in the same bed for years because the queen couldn't tolerate his spitefulness. Her best years were devoted to earning Hegemone a place on the world stage _with him_. King Vegeta accepted his namesake as heir apparent because Danae's support was invaluable - and he wouldn't be humiliated publicly over her suspected love child. He never would confront Nappa because the general had served Hegemone honorably. Despite the king's disappointment, he also knew Danae's first love was indeed the better man.

"My preference is complete silence," Danae replied to Nappa. "The king does not need to know…yet."

Hours later Vegeta donned jeans and a crisp white oxford shirt, braced for the brutal heat wave gripping New York. Dante, the page, arrived smiling and carrying a sparkling blue gift box and greeting card. All packages entering the mansion were screened for explosives and toxic substances, but the prince remained suspicious.

Eyeing the box, Vegeta gruffly replied, "What's in it? Someone must have told you."

Dante knew Vegeta was unsentimental but puzzled by his lackluster enthusiasm about the gift.

"Yes, I do," the teenager said cheerfully. "May I open it for you?"

"Don't bother," Vegeta said, extending his hand. "I'll take the card first. You may go, Dante. Your preparations for my trip are suitable. While I am away, you will support the king and queen's chief of staff, Iris. She will haze you appropriately."

"Yes, your highness. Safe travels."

Vegeta fingered the roughened, powder blue parchment until cracking the envelope's wax seal.

***  
 _Unto Your Royal Highness, the Crown Prince of Hegemone:_

 _Arestis Rose sends greetings._

 _You have been on my mind, Vegeta. While I understand your desire for distance, many years have passed and I humbly seek forgiveness for the discord I caused in your family._

 _Our great country nears a notable milestone because of you and the true believers, and I am proud to serve our government. The march of progress will continue!_

 _I have not forgotten about your birthday on August 10th. I respectfully request that you accept my gift and hope that it brings pleasure._

 _I have the honor to remain most humble and obedient servant. -_ _A.R._

The obsequious letter's faultless formality amused Vegeta. Arestis remained an unrepentant, attention-seeking know-it-all. The gift box he opened contained an intricately designed pink genie bottle and two monogrammed shot glasses.

Swarovski Alize vodka. Price: $2,500. _  
_  
"Damn," the prince grumbled, "she wasted money unwisely." He had consumed pricier spirits anyway.

Arestis always had an end game, which Vegeta knew. This brand of Alize had been the first "hard spirit" shared during their youth. Vegeta's fingers wandered over the bottle's ridges. Then, he set it down and picked up a shot glass.

Standing in the mansion's underground garage, Nappa rang Vegeta's phone. "We're ready when you are, although we should not wait much longer."

"Give me an hour, general. Also, I will retire for the evening as soon as we're flying."

Sensing his son's melancholy, Nappa considered asking to dine with him. Then he decided against it, figuring Vegeta needed solitude before seeing Bulma.

"Understood. A meal will be ready in your cabin quarters – also, Vegeta, that spirited New Yorker we know is as tough as saddle leather. We will…figure out the rest."

"She must be to deal with me," the prince replied. "You know better than anyone."

He opened the bottle, filling the shot glasses with vodka.

* * *

 **Manhattan, New York: 5 a.m., August 4th, Saturday**

Olivier and Vegeta shook hands and embraced at the hospital, acknowledging decades of friendship. Nappa nodded a polite greeting and stepped away. Olivier always had been a steadying, good-natured presence in the prince's life, which the general appreciated. Vegeta had been more distant in recent years because of his alcohol dependence, contributing to his loneliness. His friend would have helped had he known.

"You _are_ a sight, mate," he said, admiring Vegeta's tastefully casual appearance. "You look better on the telly, I say. The goatee fits you, however."

"And you look like a hapless rat dragged through an alley," Vegeta said. "Being CEO has aged you."

In truth, the white-haired executive's solid muscular frame almost matched Vegeta's, except for carrying about ten more pounds. Handing him coffee, Olivier led Vegeta into a breezy, high-ceiling living room next to Bulma's quarters. Visually harmonious, the room's classic Astor-style furniture, charcoal watercolor paintings, and the black-and-white rug appealed to the senses. Bulma's family breathed artistic appreciation into everything, the prince thought.

Olivier smiled. "Recall that many London alleys are quite lovely, you acid-tongued bastard."

The prince smirked and replied, "All the better to scald you with, arsehole."

Vegeta noticed Olivier's closer examination of him. His friend knew about his drinking, evidently. Only four people could be responsible. Zeus was dead. Bulma and Nappa wouldn't have said anything.

That left Tights – and she probably learned from Zeus before asking Bulma. She was friendly when they first met, and he was polite. Regardless, Vegeta's prickly reputation clothed him. As much as he hated to admit, Tights should be cautious – but he had limits. They would lock horns if she overstepped.

His mind raced as the New York's cityscape gradually filled with the familiar cadence of car horns, booming delivery trucks, and all manner of human chatter. Bulma had proper lodging and medical attention, but maybe she needed a discreet roommate to keep her company? Friends couldn't be there consistently – or maybe they could?

"Your email explained the basics," he said from the balcony. "What about complications?

Olivier stared forward. "Vegeta, she is at risk for heart or kidney failure, and stroke, if current treatment becomes ineffective. Doctors also are using steroids to boost the child's lung size. If Bulma could reach thirty weeks of gestation, even that would be better, but she takes priority. If the doctors deliver early to preserve _her life_ , then so be it. She cannot go home."

"How... is her mood?"

"It will improve when you enter, I am sure," Olivier said, seeing through his friend's reserved mask. Vegeta was scared and undoubtedly loved Bulma. For years Olivier hoped the prince would find a partner, and yet their brotherly bonhomie didn't outweigh legitimate concerns.

Vegeta leaned forward on the balcony's barrier, waiting for the denouement. "You disapprove," he said. "Stop overthinking and speak plainly, Olivier."

"Do you blame me?" Olivier asked with patient concern. "Bulma is family. While in Hegemone, she visits a mortally wounded friend and is confronted with a terrorist attack – all in a week. Now she's having your child. You, my friend, are a brilliant statesman - and an erstwhile cad with emotional baggage. I am a loyal pragmatist. You have been hard on yourself - which has pained me over the years – as well as others. Yet I feel your love for my cousin. I had to see it myself before moving forward."

"So you're asking what I could possibly offer her?" Vegeta asked.

"Love, of course, and that's good," Olivier said, clutching his shoulder. "Hell, I love my ex-wife, but our relationship is not salvageable. If you and Bulma commit, which I suspect, you must protect each other's hearts spiritually. You must."

"Whatever that means," Vegeta said as he sipped coffee. "Anything else you want to know?"

"Actually, I do," Olivier said, bowing his head in thought. "When did you last drink?"

Aggravated, Vegeta pulled away. "You are _crossing_ a line, Olivier. Back off – now."

"Call me any time before a bender, so I can stop you." Olivier re-entered the living room, nodding for the prince to follow. "We must stick together."

Vegeta's eyebrows arched with surprise. "You had an alcohol problem?"

"Why do you think my wife left, mate? Even my charm has limits. Consider my offer as you visit with Bulma. You will have my friendship - always - but never my blessing if you end treatment for our illness. Now then, I have kept you long enough. See her."

"Just a little sleepy, she is," an attending nurse said when Vegeta entered. "Still early, it is. Sit right here, sir."

Vegeta said nothing, which didn't surprise the nurse. "We have to be monitor fluid intake," she added, "but feel free to encourage her to drink more water or call us for other needs."

"Yes," Vegeta said. "I understand. You can leave us." He pressed a cloth-covered stress ball into Bulma's hand. "You might need this to throw at someone."

"It's just like you to sneak in, your highness," she said groggily, "and I don't need help with water. I will have some when I'm ready."

"Call it a habit _you_ encouraged, madame. However, a sunrise visit does not count."

Bulma smiled. "I did encourage that habit, didn't I?"

Their fingers interlaced. Vegeta's silence bespoke relief. They recalled their quiet hand-holding when he was hospitalized drunk and depressed - his lowest moment.

"Do not expect me to say you're beautiful right now."

"Try this," Bulma said playfully. "I really don't give a shit."

"Yeah, well," Vegeta continued, "we've seen each other in about one-thousand incredible erotic positions. I suppose you get a pass this time."

Bulma finally requested water. Her shaky hand almost dropped the plastic glass, prompting Vegeta to help her authoritatively. He seemed sad, which she couldn't tolerate. Not while she was like this. Not yet. After all, they once dragged their naked bodies across a hotel floor during a bombing in Hegemone, for goodness sake!

"Thanks for the water," she said. "So… how's it going, Count Dracula?"

Vegeta frowned as if she had insulted him. "Bulma Brief, I did not travel almost five-thousand miles to gossip about myself like a boarding school student."

Taking a deep breath, she poked his arm. "Then _tell me_ what you want, Prince Vegeta. I'm running out of topics."

Vegeta's head dropped as he laughed. "Oh, no. You _will not_ trap me again, woman. I will not be fooled. That's how we got into this mess."

"If I recall," Bulma interjected, "you wanted me – and only me – to design your clothes. Then, I soon handed your ass to you for acting like a giant ass in my home."

Vegeta observed her breathing difficulty, which wasn't bad, but she appeared uncomfortable. He stood. "I'm calling the nurse. Our banter can resume later. You need food, too."

Eyes glistening with tears, Bulma grabbed his arm. "I'm sorry I hurt you, Vegeta."

"It was unintentional," he said quietly. "I understand, tiger lily. We agreed to put distance between us. Now let me go. It's OK. Rest."

"No, it's not OK," Bulma protested.

The prince looked down and sighed. "We may be parents soon. You called and I am here. I am repaying debts for your kindnesses to me and, by extension, my eccentric family."

"Well, would you at least give me more water please?" she asked.

Despite his reluctance, Vegeta agreed. Bulma pulled him closer while he helped her drink. No matter how tired, her energetic blue eyes always dazzled. The prince shook his head, placing his cool hand on her face. Brushing her hair back, he kissed her left temple, lingering until she gently stroked his neck.

"How will we do this, Vegeta?"

"We won't," he said with conviction. "Not now. Once our child is born or… or…" He couldn't bring himself to finish that part. "We can decide about being together afterward. I am in love with you, but this is an emotional time for us."

Bulma observed him. "You know, Vegeta, I've thought extensively about Zeus living more in the moment beyond even me. I want to reach another level, with you. Let's try."

After kissing Bulma again, the prince rested his head near hers. While they reconciled, Vegeta also saw Tights listening by the door.

* * *

 **Notes: Thanks for your comments on the last chapter. Vegebul have had a rough go of it, but there's hope, yes? Regarding Tights, well, she might have a backstory clouding her judgment about the prince. Who knows! Love hearing from you.**


	17. Restraint

**Recap: Less than a week before his birthday, Prince Vegeta has arrived at the hospital in New York to support Bulma, who is having pregnancy complications. They now are considering a future together, but secrets remain. Bulma's sister Tights and their British-American cousin Olivier are taking different positions on what the future may hold.**

* * *

Vegeta largely spurned euphoric swings of hope when he wasn't drinking. Alcohol adeptly plucked those emotional piano keys, more often to his detriment, as his intake increased. For so long, whether sober or drunk, hoping too much for anything stirred insecurity, anxiety, and fear of rejection or betrayal. Bulma had provided the gift of safety in ways others couldn't, despite their earnest attempts. It wasn't their fault.

They didn't know his secret and the shame he carried. Just Nappa for now – and only Nappa. Maybe forever. No good would come from telling his mother, he felt, with her health declining. Admitting his drinking to Danae had been painful enough.

The general already said would have murdered Vegeta's uncle had he known about the molestation, but not only for the prince's sake. Raditz carried the humiliation alone, as well, but the remaining light within his withered, bitter soul had been sealed in amber, permanently.

The prince understood all of this logically, but he had been so angry. Angry…and hurt, so hurt that the pain smothered his voice, even when his spoken words were strong and vibrant. He spent years battling or avoiding or bargaining with this slow, determined murderer. His uncle had been so manipulative and unashamed about the abuse, but Basil did not break him.

Vegeta did not scream. Never. They had no idea. He was alive, though not living as fully as loved ones hoped because they didn't know.

Maybe he would never tell Bulma.

Psychotherapy inflicted more hurt than hand-to-hand combat. The prince often left his sessions weary from each disposal of emotional baggage, challenging his ability to trust. Nappa waited for him sometimes, always silent. If Vegeta appeared slightly disoriented or confused afterward, the general would sit with him for as long as necessary.

"So I guess this is what these overpriced medical quacks call 'self-care,'" he said one day.

Nappa just nodded and replied, "It's not your fault for what your uncle did. You boys didn't deserve any of it." Vegeta soon broke down, but this time he accepted the general's offer to witness his shame-drenched ugliness – while he was sober - without wanting to die or fight.

Did he deserve the terrible acts Basil committed? Of course not, but that didn't make the damage disappear. Now the prince faced fatherhood, and the woman he loved wanted to fortify their bond. Hope trickled like a winding stream through his mind. Could it be trusted? Could he trust himself? He and Bulma had been doing mental gymnastics for months.

Euphoric hope was off limits.

He expressed caution within the same breath that he kissed Bulma that day - the same caution she had before all of this happened. Roles had switched, but he also felt encouraged. Now they had a clear-cut chance at love, and, possibly, a little boy to share it with.

Tall and impeccably dressed in straight-legged jeans, Tights cut a fine figure, much like her sister. Her ex-husband often said she was "easy on the eyes." Vegeta also noticed her stately attractiveness when they first met at Bulma's home. She could have been a model, really, but instead eschewed the family's artistic predilections and pursuits for the increasingly cutthroat world of academia. Colleagues and acquaintances rarely used her first name – and never students, ever. She was "Dr. Brief," professor of physics at Columbia University. She didn't consider the expectation pretentious. She earned that title, recalling her aggravation and sadness when male professors received deference she didn't get at first. She also dealt with undeserved hostility from some of these same coworkers, but not all.

She had been on sabbatical most of the year working on projects, but she also committed to being closer to Bulma. Now her sister was ill, pregnant, and attached to a shadowy foreigner who, on this day, skillfully matched an older sibling's wary gaze with his own intimidating glare. _Managing this problem requires logic_ , she thought, as if raw emotion had no influence.

For his part, Vegeta's silence set the stage for their encounter. He appreciated that Tights fulfilled Bulma's wishes honorably and hoped to find common ground. But the realist in him expected her rejection of Olivier's affable, supportive approach about his past alcohol abuse.

Being an older brother himself, if the tables were turned, Vegeta would test boundaries too. He would sacrifice his life, without hesitation, if another tried to harm Tarble – or, if he survived, kill the offender in cold blood, drip by excruciating drip… lawfully, of course.

Thus, he accepted the merit of Tights' soon-to-be-expressed skepticism, but under no circumstances would he tolerate _any_ attempt by her to bully him. Scientists could be as demanding as politicians or businessmen, he believed.

Yet, for all of her talent, Tights was a terrible eavesdropper.

To end her sister's ill-timed interruption, Vegeta reluctantly left Bulma's bedside for the sitting room. He faced the balcony after pouring coffee, awaiting Tights' tardy entrance. His face resembled blank slate while she gave him the onceover. Ending their introductory staring match with a slight nod, she finally dropped her purse on the sofa.

Satisfied, Vegeta turned the other coffee cup upright. "Would you like some of this Kona? I am not looking for a fight – yet."

After declining the offer, Tights mustered a slender smile. "Is that a thinly veiled threat?"

"Ms. Brief, people like me do not make threats unless they are prepared to execute them. I would rather offer gratitude. Contacting me about Bulma was difficult for you, obviously."

"People like you?" Tights uncrossed her legs, leaning forward. Her seating posture conveyed dominance. Not a bad idea, she thought, considering the person being addressed. "Oh, I also prefer being called Dr. Brief. You are indeed a charmer despite your arrogance, Prince Vegeta."

The last thing Vegeta needed was another person stating the obvious - that he could be an asshole - as if gold had been discovered. He damn sure wouldn't explain himself. That trait didn't define him, but he used it well.

 _If she keeps this up, Dr. Brief might need my_ _advanced instruction in scatological insults_ , he thought. "You heard Bulma. She does not want me to leave."

"I also _heard_ you," Tights replied. Seemingly oblivious to her condescending tone, she addressed him like one of her graduate students. "Though you care about her, now you're not so sure yourself about the rest."

 _Amateur hour._ The woman's sanctimonious evasiveness annoyed Vegeta. She had made herself the center of attention. He mastered that technique early in life, so watching hers was light exercise – like a doubles tennis match with preschoolers.

"You're assuming this because you're aware that I have abused alcohol. I accept that, Ms. Brief, but antagonizing me now is unwise. Bulma is under tremendous stress, and you risk damaging your relationship."

"It's Dr. Brief." The physicist's careful discernment fixed on the competition between Vegeta's confidence and vulnerabilities – which, it seemed, had increased. Caring for Bulma left him wide open for attack, wealthy or not. How could he not see it? Smart men listened to reason, even when backed against a wall and enraged with everyone - and Vegeta was brilliant, like her.

He would hear her. She would make him listen.

Tights pointed at a wall map, focusing on Hegemone. "Lecturing me is unwise, also. World history is littered with the dead bodies of ambitious, starry-eyed reformers…or exiled, politically weakened royal families, if other countries don't take pity on them. So to be clear, I would prefer not having my sister and her child involved in your prewar ethno-state's primitive fights."

Vegeta's expression was unreadable. No fire. No ice. He looked straight through her.

"Allowing your shallow, prejudiced knowledge about my country and its neighbors to guide _your arrogance_ is unfortunate. All humans are genetically a few steps above _primitive_ , starry-eyed monkeys, including self-righteous Americans like you, _Dr. Brief_."

 **oooXXXooo**

Olivier sighed heavily from behind the door. Nuclear disaster loomed if this talk continued. _Honestly, Tights is like a honey badger searching for reptiles to eat. Well, I suppose it doesn't take much for Vegeta either, but still._

Unlike his acid-tongued cousin, he had better spy-craft skills. He calmly strolled inside, picking up Tights' purse along the way. He couldn't stand hearing her completely belittle Vegeta's efforts in Hegemone, at great cost to himself. She also underestimated the prince's scorching fury. Vegeta's subdued response should have been a clear sign. Had she been a genuine, deadly threat, the man's hands already would have been wrapped around her throat.

 _She can't be enjoying this, right?_ Olivier placed the purse firmly between Tights' manicured fingers, considerately warning her to retreat.

"My darling, Bulma could use your _delightful_ companionship now. Leave us here – silently – and we will meet for dinner later. I made reservations, at Per Se, for half past seven. Be punctual."

Irked, Tights glared at him. Olivier played peacemaker far too much, she thought, especially for a businessman. He knew and didn't care. Corporate executives don't excel by publicly revealing strong-armed deals from behind closed doors, unless they had an advantage.

"I'm always on time, cousin," Tights replied before closing the door. Her eyes briefly softened at the other proud man standing nearby. "Think about what I've said, your highness."

"I heard you, Dr. Brief."

Smiling warmly, Olivier shook his head at Vegeta. "Alright, mate?"

He nodded. "Of course. Bulma surely would disapprove if I crushed your expensive china, _among other things_."

Catching the roguish hint, Olivier gave him a wry look. Between the barbs and scowls, the prince could get a laugh out of almost anyone, whenever he cared to. Olivier also knew his friend would never abuse any woman physically just because he was capable. He weighed telling Tights that too, but that might fuel more distrust. _Only god knows what other invidious, bone-headed ideas she has,_ he thought.

"Maybe not, Vegeta. However, I am more concerned about how your rage will be managed after leaving here, now that Tights has stoked it. Please, accept my apology."

"I do not accept secondhand apologies," Vegeta replied, glancing at the door. "The offense rests with her. Save your concern for tiger lily." Realizing his blunder, he coughed and blushed. "Wait. I meant… I meant Bulma, damn it! Now stop babbling and let me leave!"

G _ood god, the rascal is downright love-struck._ Olivier tried not to be overly sentimental, but he never thought this day would come. "Consider me generous, my friend. Go freshen up a couple hours and return for brunch, or maybe you and I could have tea later? Tights will leave here soon to handle personal affairs. You will have plenty of time alone with Bulma. I promise."

"The last thing we need is teatime pastries," Vegeta said with a smirk. "You, especially. I should exercise."

"Very well." Olivier said as they shook hands. "Very well."

Good fortune rallied for Vegeta as he re-entered Bulma's room. Tights had taken a detour much sooner, apparently. He moistened a soft hand towel before approaching the bedside, wishing he could do more.

Bulma's eyes opened slowly as he pressed the cloth against her cheeks and neck. "That feels good. Thank you. You're leaving now?"

"Soon, but I will return later."

Suspicious and ignoring her discomfort, Bulma rose up in bed. Despite his gentleness with her, Vegeta had withdrawn into an attack expression: eyebrows creased, lips taut, shoulders stiff.

"Did something happen, Vegeta?"

"Stay in the other position," he scolded. "You are not breathing as well."

Bulma lightly pulled the face cloth aside. "Didn't we discuss this earlier? You aren't privileged to give me orders until I know why you are upset. You aren't hiding it well."

 _I trust Olivier will keep her harpy of a sister on a short leash, where she belongs_. Vegeta mulled Tights' shrill assertions that her sister would never be safe with him emotionally or otherwise, as if he had not weighed these concerns.

He wouldn't discuss their quarrel for now. Tights would be devastated if Bulma's condition took a bad turn - which would be her burden to carry alone, not his.

The prince shook his head, rejecting Bulma's request, and resumed the simple task he started. "You have a terrible habit of asking questions. I will be less upset when you are healthy again."

She yawned. "You're being unfair, Count Dracula. I know what you're doing."

"Then take the hint and sleep, woman."

 **oooXXXooo**

Tights handed Olivier a new pack of cigarettes as he walked beside her. Before his chat with Vegeta ended, he text-messaged an order to meet in a nearby park. Playing matador to overpower the woman's bullheadedness required patience and a strong will. Olivier had both, fortunately, and Tights was particularly fond of him.

Thinking about Bulma, he shoved cigarette into the corner of his mouth. "Give me your lighter. This horrible habit runs through our family like a virus."

After blowing smoke overhead, Tights moved underneath a tree to escape the heat. "Maybe because neuroticism runs through it too. Good thing there's a breeze today. Anyway, I know this is about Vegeta, so get on with it."

Olivier bristled at her peevishness. "Fine. What the hell were you trying to accomplish up there?"

"So you're making this my fault now?"

"Oh, bloody hell!" Exasperated, Olivier threw his cigarette on the ground. "You had no right to provoke him, especially after he dropped _everything_ to come here. You got off lucky, Tights, since I probably would have been less restrained. Vegeta may appear stoic, but he is worried sick about your sister. Let us not _forget_ her."

Tights wagged her smoking fingers at him. "That's my point! What worries me is how much he restrained himself! He doesn't want me to dig deeper, Olivier. There is something else. And now you're suddenly comfortable with all of this? Weren't you the one who first warned Bulma about getting involved, before I told you about his drinking?"

Olivier relit his cigarette and looked up. "I came from a place of love and compassion for them. You behavior today lacked both. Vegeta can be an arse, as Bulma knows. He also has a good heart. You also could benefit from removing your head from your shithole."

"Stop it." Feeling hurt, Tights turned away. "Look, I teased Bulma when they first met, especially after hearing the gossip about him. I just knew she was well-equipped to handle him. It was cute seeing the flowers and all that, too. Then he takes the world stage and this horrible crap keeps happening in Hegemone, including Zeus's death. Bulma hasn't been the same, and she's already secretive. It's not just the pregnancy. You can't see that she's in over her head?"

Olivier suddenly felt relieved that Tights didn't know about the bombing near Bulma and Vegeta's hotel room in January. He gently grasped her arms. "Look at me, darling. I want you to stop using despair over your brother's death against Bulma and my friend. The circumstances are different."

He disliked going after her like this, but Vegeta wasn't the only one with unresolved anger. They walked silently until Tights shoved her wind-tossed hair backward to wipe away tears.

"I'm not using what happened against them. Facts are facts. How much more heartache does our family need – does Bulma need? Eric and Zeus's deaths were hard enough. She doesn't even know about your _drinking troubles_ yet."

Olivier frowned. "I haven't hit the spirits or a cocktail stick for a while – and be glad I don't offend easily, you judgmental old shrew. Accusing Bulma of recklessly rescuing sick birds with no hope for recovery is unfair. Besides, she spent half of her youth sheltered from the worst of Eric's alcoholism, but not from his artistic brilliance before she entered fashion. She loved him."

"Don't you think that's a problem, Olivier – and have you forgotten that I was there? You aren't disturbed that Bulma says nothing about Eric? _She does not talk about him, as if he never lived._ He was Zeus's lover for years, for god's sake! I'm almost sure Vegeta doesn't know. Bulma isn't thinking clearly. She won't want to live in a gilded cage with her child."

Weary from arguing, Olivier exhaled. "Well then, love, I hate to do this, but I have fewer options. If you continue wielding your oral machete and god complex at those two, especially with Bulma being so ill, then don't expect another dollar from my charitable foundation to help pay for your university's particle collider project upstate, at Brookhaven."

"What?!" Horrified, Tights moved back. "You're blackmailing me, you bastard?! We're entering the next fiscal year and need that money! I can't tell the physics department chairman this!"

After handing her another cigarette, Olivier looked over the top of his glasses. "I am serious – and, yes, it is blackmail. Bulma needs comfort and wise counsel, not control. I will broach the subject of Eric when she's better, not you. Consider my warning before doing anything else, Dr. Brief, or start searching for another generous benefactor."

 **oooXXXooo**

Within two hours Vegeta and bodyguard Colla were jogging in the Bronx through a rugged cross-country path of forest in Van Cortlandt Park. The latter had to be flexible about the prince's unique, unsympathetic training. No exceptions, regardless of weather.

"Haul ass!" Vegeta barked. His guard's irritated look encouraged more humorous taunting. "You are supposed to race with me, not count steps like a toddler with a pedometer!"

 _Damn him,_ Colla grumbled. "There are cooler locations where we could do this, sire!"

Vegeta insisted on having fewer guards around this time. Attempting to bomb any individual, in this city, at his level would bring swift and precise hellfire from law enforcement. Neither were too far, ever. Being in the U.S. had decent perks. Nappa had to accept, and Colla was one of the best fighters and marksmen in Hegemone, besides Califula.

Donning a ragged headband and dark sunglasses, the prince largely felt anonymous. He and Colla were just another pair of urban fitness enthusiasts not calling attention to themselves. He wasn't the American president, and his status as a jet-setting minor celebrity was rapidly dying.

The unforgiving demands of politics made had him boring – as well as being in love.

Right.

As they prepared to leave the park, a tiny moon-faced woman with spiky black hair and piercing blue eyes tried to approach. She didn't smile but her manner conveyed confidence. She had to be no more than nineteen- or twenty-years-old, both men guessed.

"Sire, stand behind me."

"What for?" Vegeta stepped forward, raising his voice. "And who the hell are you?"

"My name is Sojaa, sir, and I am a reporter for the International Mirror. I have no weapons."

"Really?" Vegeta said dryly. "Look at that. A defenseless Saiyan spy in the big city. Shameful."

"Wow, you really are like what others tell me."

Mildly entertained, Vegeta crossed his arms. "Worse, actually. Now what do you want?"

" _Wait_ a minute," Colla interrupted. "How did you get..."

"I gave her permission," Nappa said from the park's secluded exit gate. "Stand down."

* * *

 **Hello - Thank you for the reviews on the last chapters! I'm taking a page out of the response format used by Writersblock42. (Please check out her wonderful stories, especially "Out of Time.")**

 **Did Vegeta drink those vodka shots before traveling to New York?**

There's no question that he thought a hell of a long time about it during the trip.

 **I hope there's a happy ending to this.**

No guarantees, but their strong bond is apparent. They still have some things to work out, obviously. Lots of things. (Good lord.) At least they have caring people supporting them, including two soon-to-be grandparents!

 **Better reveal that backstory or I may just hate Tights for the rest of this story.**

Lol! Well, it's all out there. She certainly is a hard one to like now. I feel bad for her, because she has legitimate concerns and her own unaddressed trauma. Desperation and anxiety make some people more controlling. She just can't see how Bulma would have a happier life as Vegeta's mate.


End file.
